BENSON 


RA  MtK 

1330rIRSTAVL. 


SHEAVES 


SHEAVES 

By 

E.  F.  BENSON 

Author  of   "The  Angel  of  Pain,"  "Dodo,"  etc. 


FOURTH  EDITION 


New  York 
Doubleday,   Page  &  Company 


COPYRIGHT,  1907,  BY 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

PUBLISHED,  OCTOBER,  1907 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 

INCLUDING  THAT  OF  TRANSLATION  INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES 
INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 


SHEAVES 


2134546 


SH  EAVES 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  long  and  ferocious  battle  between  those  desper- 
ate wild  Indians,  Chopimalive  and  his  squaw 
Sitonim  (otherwise  known  as  Jim  and  Daisy  Rye)  and 
the  intrepid  trader,  Hugh  Grainger,  had  come  to  an 
end,  and  the  intrepid  trader  lay  dead  on  the  hay  field. 
He  had  still  (which  was  a  good  deal  to  ask  of  a  dead 
man)  to  carry  on  and  direct  the  Indians'  subsequent 
movements,  and  with  praiseworthy  disregard  of  self  and 
scorn  of  consequence,  he  had  said  that  it  was  necessary 
to  bury  him  with  musical  honours  in  the  arid  sands  of 
the  American  desert,  and  "Rule  Britannia"  would  do. 
He  had,  however,  hinted  that  if  his  body  and  legs  were 
buried,  that  would  be  quite  sufficient  in  the  way  of  ritual ; 
but  the  Indians  had  thought  otherwise,  and  had  covered 
his  head  also.  Then  the  Indians,  being  inconveniently 
hot,  had  sat  down  close  to  his  tomb,  with  threats  that 
unless  he  lay  really  dead  they  would  bury  him  much 
deeper. 

"Dead  traders  always  have  their  faces  uncovered," 
said  Hugh. 

"This  one   didn't,"   remarked  Chopimalive. 

"But  the  squaw  always  came  and  uncovered  his  face 
afterward,  immediately  afterward,"  said  Hugh,  "other- 
wise his  ghost  haunted  them  and  woke  them  up  about 
midnight  with  the  touch  of  an  icy  hand." 

"Well,  your  hand  wasn't  at  all  icy,"  said  Sitonim 

3 


4  SHEAVES 

scornfully.  "It  was  very  hot — as  hot  as  me.  Besides, 
you're  dead,  and  you  can't  talk." 

Hugh  coughed  away  some  bits  of  clover  that  had  got 
into  his  mouth. 

"I'm  not  talking,"  he  said;  "it's  the  voice  from  the 
tomb.  And  if  you  don't  take  the  tomb  off  my  face, 
my  ghost  will  let  itself  down  to-night  from  the  ceiling 
like  a  purple  spider  and  eat  your  nose." 

Shrieks  from  Sitonim;  and  she  clawed  the  hay  away 
from  his  face,  nearly  putting  out  his  eye. 

"Promise  you  won't!"  she  said. 

"O  Daisy,  you  funk!"  said  Chopimalive. 

"Well,  I  don't  want  my  nose  eaten,"  said  she. 

The  corpse  continued: 

"And  then  to  make  sure  that  the  trader  wouldn't 
drop  down  from  the  ceiling,  Chopimalive  felt  in  the 
left-hand  pocket  of  his  coat,  and  put  a  cigarette  which 
he  found  in  a  case  there  into  his  mouth.  Yes.  And 

there  was  a  box  of  matches Oh,  I  forgot,  they 

pulled  his  left-hand  trouser  down,  so  that  the  sand  of 
the  American  desert  didn't  get  up  above  his  sock  and 
tickle  his  leg,  because  the  Tickle-ghost  is  far  the 
worst."  ^ 

Chopimalive  had  memories  of  the  Tickle-ghost. 

"Oh,  which  is  your  left  leg?"  he  cried.  "You're 
upside  down." 

"So's  the  Tickle-ghost,"  said  Hugh. 

"Oh,  do  tell  me!"  screamed  Chopimalive. 

"Well,  it's  the  other  leg,"  said  Hugh. 

"And  who's  a  funk  now?"  asked  Sitonim. 

Daisy    was    applying    the    match    to    the 
the  cigarette,   and  after    setting  a  little    hay 
and  burning  the  trader's  nose,  she  succeeded  in  making 
sure  that  the  spider  would  not  drop  down  from  the  ceiling. 


SHEAVES  5 

"Do  ghosts  always  want  such  a  lot  of  things?"  she 
asked. 

"The  worst  sort  do,"  said  Hugh.  "I'm  the  worst 
sort.  You  are  only  ten,  you  see.  You  haven't  seen 
all  the  ghosts  yet.  The  worst  come  last." 

The  minds  of  the  Indians,  however,  were  now  relieved. 
The  ritual  demanded  by  the  voice  from  the  tomb  had 
been  performed,  and  they  grew  aggressive  again. 

"You  musn't  talk,"  said  Chopimalive.  "You're 
dead." 

"Very  well,  then,  it  will  all  happen,"  said  Hugh 
mystically.  "  It  happens  most  if  one  doesn't  talk." 

"The  worst  things?  Oh,  there's  mother  on  the  lawn! 
She's  calling  to  us.  Must  we  go,  Hugh?" 

Dead  silence. 

"Hugh,  you  may  talk  just  this  once,  to  say  '  Yes'  or 
'No.'  " 

"Yes  or  no,"  said  the  corpse. 

"It  means  bedtime  for  Jim,"  said  Daisy,  "because 
he's  only  nine.  Yes,  mummy,  we're  here,"  she  shrieked. 

"And  is  Hugh  there?"  called  a  distant  voice. 

"Yes,  he's  dead.  But  he's  a  voice  from  the  tomb, 
and  he's  telling  us  a  story." 

"Well,  five  minutes  more,"  called  the  distant  voice. 

"Thank  you,  darling  mummy!"  shrieked  Daisy. 

"Oh,  you  little  liar!"  said  Hugh. 

"Well,  but  I  said  you  were  telling  us  a  story  because 
you  were  just  going  to.  Weren't  you?" 

"That's  no  reason  why  you  should  tell  mummy  a 
story,"  said  he. 

"Oh,  then  make  it  true!     Do  tell  us  a  story!" 

Chopimalive  sat  down  heavily  on  the  middle  portion 
of  the  tomb,  and  the  corpse  gave  a  short,  involuntary 
grunt. 


6  SHEAVES 

"Oh,  Hughie,  just  a  short  one!"  he  said.  "We've 
got  to  go  to  bed.  Do  people  go  to  bed  later  and  later 
as  they  get  older?" 

"Yes.  I  never  go  to  bed  at  all,  because  I'm  ninety- 
nine." 

"You  aren't,"  said  Daisy.     "You're  a  corpse." 

"Oh,  Daisy,  don't  be  stupid!"  said  Jim.  "That's 
finished.  Hughie 's  going  to  tell  us  a  story." 

"Will  it  be  silly?"  asked  Daisy  anxiously. 

"I  can't  tell.  It  depends  on  internal  evidence," 
said  Hugh. 

Daisy  sighed. 

"I  don't  know  what  that  means,"  she  said. 

"Nor  do  I,"  said  Hugh.  "I'm  a  corpse,  I  am.  You 
said  so." 

"Oh,  shut  up!"  said  Jim,  bounding  up  and  down. 
"Now  begin,  Hugh.  A  minute's  gone." 

Hugh  was  far  too  sensible  and  serious  to  waste  more 
of  the  time  of  the  children,  which  is  so  infinitely  precious 
when  bedtime  looms  like  a  thunder-cloud,  and  began. 

" Once  upon  a  time,"  he  said,  "there  were  three  absurd 
old  men,  who  lived  together  in  an  enormous  castle  built 
of  strawberries." 

"I  should  have  ate  them!"  said  Jim. 

"They  did.  When  they  felt  the  least  hungry,  and 
very  often  when  they  didn't,  they  ate  a  piece  of  the  wall, 
which  instantly  grew  again.  Sometimes  they  forgot, 
and  ate  the  chairs  on  which  they  were  sitting.  Because 
the  chairs  never  grew  again,  and  so  after  a  year  or  two 
they  all  had  to  sit  on  the  floor." 

He  paused,  for  to  talk  pure  nonsense  requires  an  effort 
of  the  imagination.  It  is  fatal  if  any  sense  creeps  in. 
In  the  pause  Daisy  brushed  away  the  last  remnants  of 
hay  from  his  face,  because  she  thought  she  would  hear 


SHEAVES  7 

better  so.  The  face  was  very  red  and  hot  and  extraor- 
dinarily young — the  face  of  a  man,  it  is  true,  but  of  a 
very  boyish  person. 

"Oh,  get  on!"  said  Tim. 

Hugh  again  gave  an  involuntary  grunt. 

"They  were  all,  all  three  of  them,  very  absurd  people," 
he  said,"  chiefly  because  they  had  never  had  any  mothers, 
but  had  been  found  in  gooseberry-bushes  in  the  garden." 

Daisy  gave  a  long  appreciative  sigh. 

"Oh,  Were  you  found  there,  Hughie?"  she  said. 

Hugh  thought  a  moment. 

"No.  Otherwise  I  should  have  been  an  absurd  person. 
None  of  us  were  found  in  gooseberry-bushes.  Try  to 
remember  that,  and  don't  say  I  said  anything  about  it. 
But  these  people  were  found  there,  so  they  were  all  very 
peculiar.  One  was  so  tall  that  he  had  to  go  up  to  the 
attics  to  brush  his  hair,  and  one  was  so  short  that  he 
had  to  go  down  to  the  cellar  to  put  on  his  boots;  and  the 
third  had  such  long  sight  that  he  saw  all  round  the  world, 
and  could  thus  see  the 'back  of  his  own  head,  because 
the  world  is  round  and  he  saw  all  round  it.  But  he 
could  see  nothing  nearer  than  America,  unless — unless 
he  wore  spectacles.  What's  that?" 

"  It  isn't  anything,"  said  Daisy  in  a  faltering  tone. 

Hugh  thought  he  had  heard  some  extraneous  sound, 
but  he  did  not  trouble  to  look  round. 

"Now,  though  the  castle  was  made  of  strawberries," 
he  said,  "and  there  was  no  trouble  about  washing  up 
or  cleaning " 

"What  happened  to  the  stalks?"  asked  Jim. 

"There  weren't  any.  They  were  the  best  strawberries, 
like  those  you  see  when  you  come  down  to  tea  with 
mummy." 

"Was  there  cream?"  asked  Daisy. 


8  SHEAVES 

"Yes;  it  came  out  of  sugar-taps  in  the  wall,  so  that 
you  held  the  strawberry  under  the  tap  and  it  was  covered 
with  cream  and  sugar,  because  the  taps  always  melted 
very  fast.  That  was  all  right.  But  what  wasn't  all 
right  was  that  the  first  absurd  old  man,  whose  name 
was  Bang,  was  always  running  up  to  the  attic  to  brush 
his  hair,  and  the  second  silly  old  man  was  always  sitting 
in  the  cellar  to  put  on  his  boots.  His  name  was  Bing; 
and  the  third  old  man,  whose  name  was  Bong,  was 
always  putting  on  his  spectacles,  because  he  wanted  to 
see  something  nearer  than  America.  So  after  they  had 
lived  like  this  for  rather  more  than  two  hundred  years, 
it  struck  them  that  a  system  of  cooperative  and  aux- 
iliary mutualness " 

"What?"  shrieked  both  the  children  together. 

" I  don't  know,"  said  Hugh.  "So  the  tall  man  always 
lived  up  in  the  attic  and  brushed  everybody's  hair,  and 
the  short  man  always  lived  in  the  cellar  and  tied  every- 
body's bootlaces,  and " 

This  time  there  was  a  distinct  sound  of  suppressed 
laughter,  and  Hugh  sat  up. 

"And  the  long-sighted  man  put  on  all  the  spectacles 
he  could  find  in  the  garden  and  went  to  bed,  because 
the  five  minutes  were  up,  and  he  expected  that  a  good 
long  night,  especially  if  he  wore  spectacles,  would  make 
him  think  of  something  in  the  morning." 

Daisy  saw  through  this. 

"Oh,  mummy,  you  spoiled  it  all  by  laughing!"  she 
said  with  deep  reproach.  "I  know  he  wouldn't  have 
gone  to  bed  quite  at  once." 

"More  than  five  minutes,  darlings,"  said  Lady  Rye. 
"Say  good  night  to  Hugh." 

"And  you'll  come  and  see  us  when  you  go  down  to 
dinner?" 


SHEAVES  9 

"Yes,  if  you  go  at  once." 

The  two  obedient  little  figures  galloped  off  to  the 
house,  and  Hugh  dispossessed  himself  of  the  sand  of  the 
American  desert  and  sat  up. 

"Dressing-time?"  he  asked. 

"No,  only  dressing-bell,"  said  she.  "I  came  to  sit 
in  the  hay  for  five  minutes.  When  did  you  get 
here?" 

"About  tea-time.  You  were  all  out  on  the  river, 
so  we  played  Indians." 

"Daisy  said  you  played  better  than  anybody  she 
knew,"  said  Lady  Rye.  "  I  wish  you'd  teach  me.  They 
don't  think  I  play  at  all  well." 

Hugh  was  combing  bits  of  things  out  of  his  hair. 

"No,  I  expect  you  are  not  quite  serious  enough,"  he 
said.  "You  probably  don't  concentrate  your  mind  on 
the  fact  that  you  are  an  Indian  and  that  this  is  an 
American  desert.  Heavens,  I  shall  never  get  rid  of 
this  hay;  I  wish  it  wasn't  so  prickly!" 

"  One  has  to  suffer  to  be  absurd,"  said  she. 

"Oh,  but  surely  it  isn't  absurd  to  play  Indians!" 
said  Hugh.  "Anyhow,  it  isn't  more  absurd  than  it  is  for 
all  us  grown-up  people  to  dress  up  every  evening  and 
go  to  parties.  That  is  just  as  absurd  as  children's 
dressing-up.  In  fact,  they  are  more  sensible;  they 
dress  up  and  are  what  they  dress  up  as.  We  dress  up, 
and  behave  exactly  as  usual." 

Lady  Rye  considered  this. 

"Why  do  you  go  to  parties,  then,  if  it's  absurd?"  she 
asked. 

"Why?  Because  it's  such  fun.  I  play  wild  Indians 
with  Daisy  and  Jim  for  the  same  reason.  But  in  both 
cases  it's  playing.  If  you  come  to  think  of  it,  it  is 
ridiculous  for  some  distinguished  statesman  or  general 


to  SHEAVES 

to  put  on  stars  and  ribands  when  he  goes  to  see  his 
friends.  It's  dressing-up.  So  why  not  say  so?" 

"Well,  it's  time  for  us  to  go  and  dress  up.  Oh,  isn't 
it  nice  just  for  a  day  or  two  to  have  a  pause?  There's 
no  one  here  but  Edith  and  Toby  and  you,  and  I  shall 
make  no  efforts,  but  only  go  out  in  a  punt  and  fill  my 
pond." 

"Fill  your  pond?"  asked  Hugh. 

"Yes;  you  and  Edith  shall  both  help.  Don't  you 
know  the  feeling,  when  you  have  been  racketting  about 
and  talking  and  trying  to  arrange  things  for  other  people 
how  one's  whole  brain  and  mind  seem  to  be  just  like 
an  empty  pond — no  water  in  it,  only  some  mud,  in  which 
an  occasional  half-stranded  fish  of  an  idea  just  flaps 
from  time  to  time?  Go  and  dress,  Hugh,  and  don't 
keep  me  talking." 

Lady  Rye's  misguided  parents  had  selected  the  name 
Cynthia  for  her.  This  was  a  pity,  since  there  was  nothing 
whatever  in  her  appearance  or  disposition  that  could 
remind  her  friends  of  the  moon,  and  while  she  was  still 
of  an  early  age  they  had  taken  the  matter  into  their 
own  hands,  disregarded  her  baptismal  name,  and  always 
called  her  Peggy,  which  suited  her  quite  admirably.  In 
her  own  opinion  she  was  hideous,  but  this  fact,  for  so 
she  honestly  and  frankly  considered  it  to  be,  did  not  in 
the  least  weigh  on  her  mind,  nor  did  she  let  that  very 
acute  instrument  of  perception  dwell  on  it,  for  it  was  a 
mere  waste  of  time  to  devote  any  thought  to  that  which 
was  so  palpably  inferior.  She  knew  that  her  mouth 
was  too  big,  and  that  her  nose  was  too  small,  and  that 
her  hair,  which  might,  if  anybody  wanted  to  be  really 
candid,  be  called  sandy,  did  not  suit  with  her  rather 
dark  complexion.  She  knew,  too,  that  hei  eyes  were 
green,  and  since  this  was  so,  she  considered,  this  time 


SHEAVES  ii 

rather  hastily,  that  they  must  therefore  be  ugly,  which 
they  certainly  were  not,  for  they  had  to  a  wonderful 
degree  that  sensitiveness  and  power  of  reflecting  the 
mood  of  the  moment,  which  green  eyes  above  all  others 
seem  to  possess.  And  since  the  moods  which  were 
reflected  there  were  always  shrewd,  always  kindly,  and 
always  humorous,  it  followed  that  the  eyes  were  very 
pleasant  to  look  upon.  They  indicated  an  extraor- 
dinary power  of  friendliness. 

Her  friends,  it  therefore  followed,  were  many,  and 
though  their  unanimous  verdict  was  that  "she  looked 
charming,"  she,  with  the  rather  severe  commonsense 
which  distinguished  her,  took  this  epithet  as  confirmation 
of  her  own  opinion.  For  nobody  (except  one's  enemies) 
said  one  looked  charming  if  it  was  ever  so  faintly  possible 
to  say  that  one  was  pretty  or  beautiful,  and  to  her  mind 
"you  look  charming"  was  rather  a  clumsy  mode  of 
indicating  one's  plainness,  accompanied  by  a  welcome. 
But  she  was  as  far  from  quarrelling  with  her  fate  as  she 
was  from  quarrelling  with  her  friends;  in  this  over- 
populated  world,  where  there  are  so  many  people  and 
so  few  prizes,  she  was  more  than  content  with  what 
had  been  given  her.  She  was  well  married,  she  had 
two  adorable  children,  a  "dear  angel"  of  a  husband — a 
position  in  its  way  quite  unique,  and  entirely  of  her 
own  making;  also  she  had  formed  the  excellent  habit 
of  enjoying  herself  quite  enormously,  without  damage 
to  others— an  attitude  toward  life  which  is  more  to  be 
desired  than  gold.  It  was,  in  fact,  a  large  part  of  her 
gospel;  with  her  whole  nature,  pleasant  and  mirthful 
and  greatly  alive,  she  passionately  wanted  people  to  be 
happy.  It  seemed  to  her  the  ideal  attitude  toward 
life,  and  she  practised  it  herself. 

The  advent  of  her  sister,  Mrs.  Allbutt,  and  herself  on 


12  SHEAVES 

the  London  horizon  had,  twenty  years  ago,  been  quite 
a  big  event.  Edith  had  been  then  a  girl  of  twenty-two; 
she  herself  was  three  years  younger.  Much  of  the  coal 
of  Staffordshire  was  in  their  joint  hands,  and  marriage- 
able London  was  at  their  feet.  Then,  as  usual,  the  un- 
usual happened.  Cynthia  (or  Peggy),  the  green-eyed, 
the  sandy-haired,  married  at  once,  and  married  well; 
and  though  that  was  not  in  the  least  remarkable,  the 
odd  thing  was  that  Edith,  the  elder,  the  beautiful,  did 
not  marry  for  two  years  later.  And  when  she  did  marry 
she  married  that  impossible  little  Dennis  Allbutt.  The 
only  explanation  was  that  she  fell  in  love  with  him. 
She,  at  any  rate — that  proud,  shy,  silent  girl  of  twenty 
years  ago — had  no  other  to  give,  for  this  was  true  and 
simple  and  sufficient,  and  as  to  the  "why"  that  she  had 
fallen  in  love  with  this  bad  subject  she  did  not  concern 
herself  to  enqxu're.  It  was  so;  something  in  her  re- 
sponded to  something  in  him — to  his  quickness  maybe, 
for  she,  beautiful  mind  and  body  alike,  was  rather  slow  of 
movement,  and  it  was  in  vain  that  Peggy,  wise  from 
the  heights  of  her  two  years'  knowledge  of  the  domestic 
hearth,  besought  her  to  withdraw  her  hand  before  it 
was  irrevocably  given.  Then,  when  pleading  was  of 
no  use,  when  reasoning  was  vain,  she  had  told  her  sister 
what  people  said  of  him — how  he  tipped  and  fuddled 
himself,  so  that  he  went  to  bed  every  night  not  sober, 
even  if  not  drunk;  that  it  was  in  the  blood,  that  his 
father  had  died  a  drunkard's  death.  And  at  that  Edith 
had  risen  up  in  quiet,  rather  dreadful  anger. 

"It  will  be  wiser  of  you  not  to  go  on,  Peggy,"  she  had 
said.  "Dennis  has  told  me  all  about  it.  What  you 
say  about  his  father  is  true;  what  you  say  about  him 
is  false.  It  was  true,  however,  at  one  time.  He  has 
completely  got  over  it." 


SHEAVES  13 

"But — "  began  Peggy. 

"I  think  you  had  better  beg  my  pardon,"  said  Edith. 

So,  poor  soul,  she  had  her  way,  and  the  twelve  years 
that  followed  had  been  for  her  a  descent,  steady  and 
unremitting,  into  the  depths  of  hell.  Three  years  ago 
now  the  end  had  come,  and  these  three  years  of  her 
widowhood  had  been  passed  by  her  in  a  Icng  heroic  strug- 
gle to  build  up  life  again  out  of  the  wreck  and  ruin  that  he 
had  made  of  her  best  years,  when  he  chained  her  by  his 
side,  so  to  speak,  in  a  cellar  while  outside  June  was  in 
flower  for  her.  It  had  been  hard  work,  and  often  it 
was  the  mere  fear  of  going  mad  if  she  allowed  herself 
to  pause  to  let  her  mind  dwell  on  that  frightful  back- 
ground of  the  years,  that  had  kept  he£  struggling  and 
battling  to  make  something  of  what  remained  to  her. 
She  had  studied,  she  had  worked,  with  the  whole  force 
of  her  quiet  indomitable  will  she  had  held  to  that  which 
she  knew,  even  in  the  darkest  hours,  to  be  a  fact — 
namely,  that  nobody  could  ruin  your  life  for  you,  unless 
you  acquiesced  in  the  ruin;  as  long  as  she  could  say  to 
herself  "I  do  not  allow  it  to  be  ruined,"  it  was  not. 
And  to-day  she  might  fairly  say  that  that  attitude  had 
become  a  habit  to  her;  dark  hours  still  came — hours 
of  gloom  and  impotent  revolt  against  the  searing  and 
burning  years  she  had  been  through — but  these  were 
no  longer  habitual. 

London,  which  never  remembers  anything  clearly  for 
long,  never  wholly  forgets,  and  this  spring  when  Edith 
Allbutt  had  appeared  again,  staying  at  Rye  House  with 
her  sister,  it  faintly  recollected  these  facts  and  commen- 
ted on  them.  It  really  was  almost  worth  while  to  live 
twelve  years  with  a  dreadful  little  man  like  that  if  at  the 
end  you  came  out  at  the  age  of  over  forty  looking  like 
Juno,  She  was  so  pleasant  too,  so  agreeable,  she  had 


i4  SHEAVES 

such  distinction  o_  a  kind  that  was  rather  rare  nowadays, 
when  everybody  played  bridge  with  one  hand  while 
they  played  croquet  with  the  other,  and  talked  all  the 
time  with  their  mouths  full  of  a  vegetarian  diet.  She 
was  the  sort  of  person — magnetic,  is  it  not? — of  whom 
one  is  always  conscious.  In  a  way  utterly  opposite 
to  Peggy's,  she  gave  the  impression  of  immense  vitality. 
What  had  she  been  doing  with  herself  during  these  three 
years  in  the  country,  where  nobody  had  seen  her,  to 
make  her  like  that?  Above  all,  what  was  she  going  to 
do  with  herself  now  ? 

It  seemed  then  that,  dissimilar  as  the  two  sisters  were, 
the  family  likeness  between  them  did  exist  somewhere 
very  essentially,  for  if  there  was  one  thing  for  which 
Peggy  was  distinguished  it  was  vitality  of  a  kind  that 
made  everybody  else  seem  rather  like  molluscs.  And 
though  very  differently  manifested,  this  vitality  seemed 
to  be  equally  characteristic  of  her  sister,  who  had  not 
retired  to  a  bath-chair  or  a  cemetery,  but  had  come  out 
again  unimpaired  and  serenely  splendid  from  what 
would  have  driven  most  women  out  of  their  minds. 

The  little  house  where  this  tiny  party  of  four,  not 
counting  the  two  wild  Indians,  was  assembled  was 
Peggy's  own  particular  pled-d-terre,  though,  as  she 
justly  observed,  there  was  on  the  whole  less  land  about 
it  than  water.  It  stood  separated  only  by  its  own 
lawn  from  the  loveliest  reach  of  all  Thames-side,  just 
below  Odney  Weir  and  opposite  the  woods  of  Cliveden, 
which  rose  in  a  hundred  spires  and  finials  of  varied  green 
up  the  steep  hillside.  The  tow-path  crossed  the  river 
to  the  other  bank  just  below  it,  so  that  the  lawn  went 
down  to  the  water's  edge,  and  no  riband  of  dusty 
thoroughfare  tarnished  or  smirched  the  liquidness  of 
the  place.  On  one  side  a  hedge,  no  mere  gauze  of  twigs 


SHEAVES  15 

and  leaves  as  transparent  as  a  wire  fence,  but  a  real 
compact  growth  of  hawthorn  eight  feet  high  and  a  yard 
in  solid,  comfortable  breadth,  separated  it  from  the 
meadow;  while  on  the  other  a  mill-stream,  flowing 
strong  and  steady,  and  combing  the  soft  green  water- 
weeds  as  it  passed  over  them  in  ropes  of  woven  crystal, 
made  an  inviolable  peninsula,  on  which  stood  paddock 
and  house  and  garden.  The  house  itself  held  not  more 
than  half  a  dozen  guests,  and  it  was  just  for  this  privacy 
and  smallness  that  Peggy  so  loved  it,  and  the  very 
rarity  of  the  occasions  on  which  she  could  manage  to 
escape  from  the  businesses  which  her  incredible  energy 
involved  her  in  made  her  feel  like  a  child  on  a  holiday. 
It  had  a  veranda  all  along  the  front  side  of  it,  and  a 
dozen  climbing  roses  which  had  swarmed  up  to  the  very 
chimneys  of  the  house  made  the  walls  and  much  of  the 
roof  invisible  under  the  red  and  cream  of  their  blossom- 
ing. On  the  lawn  a  thicket  of  lilac  and  syringa  fenced 
off  the  paddock  and  kitchen  garden,  a  couple  of  big 
elms  offered  their  grave  shade  against  the  noonday 
heat,  and  lower  down  close  to  the  mill-stream  and  facing 
the  river  stood  a  big  plane  with  moulting  bark,  elbowed 
branches,  and  clean-cut,  geometric  leaf.  Down  the 
centre  of  the  lawn  strayed  a  narrow  gravel  path,  bordered 
on  each  side  by  beds  where  Madonna  lilies  were  just  now 
beginning  to  open  their  wax-like  petals  and  make  the 
air  swoon  with  heavy  exquisite  fragrance ;  while  at  their 
feet,  turning  dying  eyes  to  their  successors  in  the  torch- 
race  of  flower-life,  the  irises  of  late  spring  were  beginning 
to  wither.  And  everywhere,  here  between  the  lilies 
in  standards,  and  near  the  hedge  in  large  square  spaces 
of  garden-bed,  growing  from  the  native  root,  the  tri- 
umph of  rose-time  was  assured.  Spring  had  held  no 
early  promise,  to  be  forsworn  with  frosts  of  May;  no 


16  SHEAVES 

blight  this  year  had  come  to  the  advanced  buds  the 
caterpillars  had  spared,  and  no  intangible  sickness — 
that  despair  of  gardener-souls — had  vexed  the  assurance 
of  early  summer.  Week  by  week,  from  the  first  frail 
tentative  buds  to  the  swollen  chalice  that  held  the  rose, 
and  from  the  bursting  chalice  to  the  fullspread  magical 
flower,  the  growth  had  gone  on  to  the  perfection  that 
was  now  here.  For  a  week  before  the  weather  had 
erred  on  the  side  of  dry  ness,  then  had  followed  twelve 
hours  of  plumping  rain,  then  had  followed  a  hot,  moist 
day,  then  had  followed  a  day  of  pervading,  beneficent 
sun.  And,  as  if  he  was  the  conductor  of  some  garden 
symphony,  all  the  roses  had  responded,  as  when  a  hun- 
dred bows  are  ready  resting  on  the  strings,  to  that  baton 
beat,  and  had  leapt  on  to  a  fortissimo.  There  was  old- 
fashioned  cabbage-rose,  homely  to  the  eye  but  steadfast 
as  a  friend  to  the  nostril;  La  F^nce  was  there,  perfect 
in  line  and  scent;  Baroness  Rothschild  was  pinker  and 
more  perfect  in  form,  but  with  no  other  appeal;  Richard- 
son sprawled,  desiring  fresh  trellises,  where  he  could 
wrestle  with  the  loose  carmine  pillar ;  Beaute  Inconstante 
showed  copper,  and  yet  maintained  its  value  against 
the  purer  gold  of  Dijon;  Captain  Christie  found  an 
anchorage  on  this  stormless  margin  of  the  Thames ;  and 
a  company  of  alien  ladies,  Madame  Vidal,  Madame  Rivot, 
Madame  Re"sal,  agreed  with  Lady  Folkestone  on  the 
pleasantness  of  this  Thames  lawn.  They  all,  like  the 
human  inhabitants  of  the  house,  felt  so  much  at  home 
there,  and  so,  like  all  sensible  people,  being  at  home, 
they  flowered  and  flourished. 

But  above  all  it  was  the  liquidness,  the  coolness  of 
shady  moisture,  the  absence  of  dust  that  made  the 
essential  charm  of  the  place.  Half  a  mile  only  away 
ran  the  motor- tortured  highway  to  Oxford,  a  place  of 


SHEAVES  17 

scurrying  monsters  of  steel,  in  which  sat  strange  goggled 
drivers,  plunging  through  these  seas  of  dust;  a  place 
of  hootings  and  acrid  petroleum  smells,  where  the  grit 
of  the  road  stood  all  day  like  a  pillar  of  cloud  above  the 
much-travelled  route,  while  where  by  the  roadside  there 
should  have  stretched  green  borders  of  grass,  starred 
with  meadow-sweet  and  ragged-robin  and  the  bright 
gilt  of  the  buttercups,  a  blanket  of  gray  dust  lay  over 
everything,  as  if  some  volcano  had  strewn  its  dead 
ashes  over  the  country.  But  here  for  the  dust-ridden 
road  there  was  the  liquid  Waterway ;  for  the  gray  road- 
side herbs  the  fresh  velvet  of  the  lawn ;  and  for  the  hoarse 
metallic  sounds  of  the  flying  traffic  the  scud  and  flutter 
of  thrushes  and  their  liquid  outpouring  of  song,  or  on 
the  river  itself  the  cluck  and  gurgle  and  drip  of  oars 
and  the  whisper  of  the  broad-faced  punt  as  it  was 
propelled  leisurely  along,  or,  when  the  winds  were  still, 
the  low  cool  sound  of  the  outpouring  of  the  weir  a  hun- 
dred yards  above.  All  this  on  those  who,  like  Peggy 
when  in  London,  crammed  the  work  and  movement  of 
forty-eight  hours  into  every  twenty-four,  acted  like  some 
soothing  spell.  Nature  and  running  water  were  a 
cooling  and  tranquilising  medicine  to  the  fevered  mind 
even  as  to  the  London-wearied  body. 

Moreover,  the  house,  as  has  been  said,  was  very  small, 
and  there  was  no  possibility  even  if  she  had  wished  it, 
of  Peggy's  asking  any  party  down  here.  Consequently, 
the  mental  and  emotional  atmosphere  of  the  place  had 
for  her,  and  for  those  who  came  here,  a  restful  coolness 
Which  corresponded  well  with  its  physical  character- 
istics. Nobody  ever  made  any  efforts  here,  unless  his 
natural  inclination  was  to  make  efforts,  or  attempted 
for  any  sake  of  social  duty  to  entertain,  or  expected  to 
be  entertained.  She  only  asked  here  those  whom  she 


i8  SHEAVES 

ungrammatically  but  intelligibly  called  the  "friendest 
of  her  friends,"  who  would  without  the  slightest  sense  of 
restraint  neither  speak  nor  move  all  the  time  they  were 
here,  unless  they  wished  to,  and  who  were  free,  on  the 
other  hand,  if  they  liked,  to  take  their  rest,  as  Hugh 
generally  did,  by  beginning  the  day  about  six  with  a 
bath  in  Odney  Weir,  rowing  or  punting  on  the  Thames 
for  many  violent  hours,  talking  as  if  in  a  little  time  their 
lips  were  going  to  be  dumb,  and  playing  wild  Indians 
with  the  children.  That  to  her  and  also  to  her  guests 
was,  in  a  word,  the  charm  of  the  place. 

At  the  lower  edge  of  the  lawn  and  close  to  the  margin 
of  the  river  there  was  a  big  white  tent,  planted,  like  the 
righteous,  by  the  water  side,  where,  whenever  the 
weather  was  warm,  all  meals  were  served.  It  was  to- 
ward this,  ten  minutes  after  Hugh  and  Peggy  had  gone 
upstairs,  that  Mrs.  Allbutt  was  walking  across  the  grass, 
for  the  night  was  deliciously  hot  and  still,  and  her  maid 
had  told  her  that  dinner  would  be  outside.  And  cer- 
tainly there  was  some  sense  in  the  feeling  that  it  was 
worth  while  to  live  a  dozen  years  with  an  impossible 
husband  if  the  effect  at  the  age  of  forty-two  was  to 
render  a  woman  in  the  least  like  her.  She  had  her 
sister's  dark  skin  and  her  sister's  height,  with  an  inch 
or  an  inch  and  a  half  perhaps — which  makes  a  huge 
difference  to  those  already  tall — thrown  in;  but  there 
the  resemblance  between  them  ceased  with  a  very 
decided  break.  Nature  had  tried  no  experiments  in 
dealing  with  her  as  she  had  in  the  case  of  Peggy,  with 
her  pale  hair  and  dark  skin,  but  had  iised  one  of  her 
most  marked  though  least  common  types.  On  her  head 
she  had  set  coils  of  hair  so  black  that  the  lights  in  it, 
of  which  it  was  full,  looked  almost  blue;  she  had  given 
her  the  short  nose,  the  short  upper  lip,  the  full  generously 


SHEAVES  19 

curving  mouth  that  usually  speaks  of  southern  blood; 
but  then,  a  miracle  of  design,  she  had  shown  the  Saxon 
race  in  the  blue  eyes  that  looked  out  with  a  child's 
directness  of  gaze  from  below  the  straight  line  of  eye- 
brow. They  were  blue  of  no  uncertain  hue,  so  that  they 
seemed  now  gray  and  now  hazel,  but  were  of  the  colour 
that  remains  true  and  vivid  even  in  the  evil  yellow  of 
gaslight.  And  the  years,  those  sore  and  tortured  years 
that  had  passed  over  her  head,  had  left  there,  now  that 
her  struggle  was  over,  no  trace  of  their  trouble;  they 
had  but  brought  her  to  the  full  bloom  and  maturity  of 
the  type  that  had  always  been  so  beautiful.  Her  dark 
complexion,  of  the  colour  which  so  often  after  youth 
is  past,  tends  to  get  grayish  and  of  rather  leathery  texture, 
had  still  the  clear  freshness  that  as  a  rule  only  pale  skins 
preserve  at  the  age  of  forty.  But  age  at  this  moment 
seemed  to  be  a  thing  apart  from  her.  She  existed  now 
in  her  full  bloom  of  beauty,  and  the  mere  clumsy  measure 
of  years,  you  would  have  said,  had  no  significance  as 
regards  her.  She  was  poised  at  the  midsummer  of  life, 
and  the  storms  of  spring  that  she  had  gone  through, 
the  storms  and  chills  of  autumn  that  might  follow, 
seemed  at  this  moment  to  stand  off  from  her,  just  as 
on  this  perfect  evening  of  mid-June  winter  and  spring 
and  autumn  all  seemed  remote,  beyond  the  horizon 
of  circumstance. 

So  Juno  went  slowly  across  the  lawn,  pausing  once 
or  twice  by  this  or  that  standard  rose,  and,  when  the 
little  twilight  breeze  came  to  her  from  the  bed  of  lilies, 
standing  still  for  a  long  moment,  drinking  in  the  heavy 
swooning  fragrance.  It  was  already  close  on  half-past 
eight,  and  the  sun  had  set,  and  now  the  dusk,  like  some 
gentle,  beautiful  animal,  was  drinking  up  the  colours 
of  the  sky,  as  stags  drink  when  night  comes  on.  It  had 


20  SHEAVES 

drunk  the  green  from  the  Cliveden  woods  opposite, 
leaving  them  gray  till  the  sun  should  pour  the  river  of 
colour  over  them  again  at  dawn;  it  had  drunk  the  blue 
from  the  sky,  leaving  it  hueless,  dove-coloured,  and  only 
in  the  west,  like  flaming  dregs  in  the  cup  of  the  heavens, 
lingered  on  the  horizon  a  streak  of  crimson  that  faded 
through  yellow,  through  pale  watery  green  into  the 
velvet  tonelessness  of  the  sky.  Very  remotely  the  first 
stars  glimmered  there,  which  would  move  closer  to  the 
earth,  so  it  seemed,  as  the  layers  of  darkness  were  spread 
over  the  sky;  and,  as  if  to  compensate  for  the  with- 
drawal of  light,  a  hundred  delicate  perfumes,  impercep- 
tible in  the  clang  and  triumph  of  sunshine,  were  born 
out  of  the  flower-beds,  out  of  the  lawn,  out  of  the  liquid 
river,  and  streamed  through  the  hedge  from  the  shorn 
hay  of  the  meadow  beyond. 

It  seemed  to  her,  too,  that  in  this  soft  slow  movement, 
so  to  speak,  of  dusk,  as  opposed  to  the  brilliant  allegro 
of  sunshine,  the  sounds,  as  well  as  the  lights,  though 
slower  and  more  subdued,  were  of  the  same  delicate 
and  subtle  perfection.  The  chorus  of  birds,  that  half 
an  hour  ago  were  so  busy  over  the  rapture  of  their 
evensong,  was  still,  or  at  the  most  from  one  bush  or 
another  some  two  or  three  notes  were  drowsily  fluted  by 
a  thrush,  or  for  a  moment  the  shrill  chiding  of  a  com- 
pany of  swifts  sounded  and  was  silent.  But  the  myriad 
noises  of  summer  night,  unheard  during  the  clatter 
and  triumph  of  day,  now  made  themselves  audible. 
Soft  little  ghost-like  breezes  stirred  in  the  flower-beds, 
answering  each  other  in  whispered  fugue-like  passages; 
the  subject  was  taken  up  and  repeated,  low  but  more 
sonorously,  from  tree  to  tree;  the  liquid  note  of  the  mill- 
stream  soothing  the  sun-scorched  banks  was  there; 
overhead  the  high  harmonics  of  wheeling  bats  made 


SHEAVES  21 

staccato  notes,  and  little  unexplained  rustlings  in  the 
bushes  showed  where  the  small  furry  night-feeders  were 
already  astir.  Then  suddenly  from  the  woods  opposite 
a  nightingale  broke  into  the  full  torrent  of  its  song, 
and  all  the  other  noises  of  night  became  one  long- 
sustained  chord  that  but  accompanied  it. 

Edith  had  now  come  to  the  river  bank,  and  stood 
there  in  silence  of  soul,  hardly  listening  to  but  just  receiv- 
ing into  herself  that  magical  song,  which  seemed  to 
concentrate  and  kindle  into  one  flow  of  melody  all  the 
music  that  the  world  held.  It  did  not  speak  of,  but  it 
was  the  eternity  of  youth,  the  immutability  of  love; 
the  everlasting  beauty  of  the  world  was  there,  so  that 
age  and  decay  and  death  ceased  to  be.  And  that  voice 
was  the  voice  of  all  nature,  and  in  silence  she  sang 
with  it. 

The  moment,  though  it  seemed  infinite  in  import,  was 
but  short  in  duration ;  it  but  flickered  and  flashed  across 
her,  and  the  next  minute  she  was  conscious  of  the 
immediate  world  again.  On  her  left  and  close  to  her 
was  the  tent  where  they  were  to  dine,  lit  inside  so  that 
the  canvas  of  it  stood  out  a  luminous  square  against  the 
dusk.  And  even  as  she  came  to  herself  again — for  that 
moment  of  nightingale's  song  had  banished  the  actual 
external  world  as  by  some  anaesthetic — she  saw  Peggy 
coming  out,  a  black  blot,  from  the  vividly-illuminated 
oblong  of  the  open  French  window  by  which  the  drawing- 
room  opened  on  to  the  lawn.  Her  husband  had  lingered 
inside  to  look  at  the  evening  papers,  and  Peggy  turned 
and  called  to  him. 

"Darling  Toby,  do  come-,"  she  said.  "It  is  so  late, 
and  I  am  so  hungry,  and  we'll  begin  and  not  wait  for 
anybody.  Hugh  is  sure  to  be  late,  for  I  heard  him 
splashing  about  in  the  bath  as  I  came  downstairs.  And 


22  SHEAVES 

Edith  is  always  punctual,  which  is  more  than  we  are. 
Edith!  "  she  called.  "Ah,  there  she  is;  I  told  you  so!  " 

Peggy  hurried  across  the  lawn  as  Edith  came  to  meet 
her. 

"And  listeners — were  you  listening? — do  hear  good 
of  themselves  sometimes,"  she  said.  "As  if  you  could 
ever  hear  otherwise!  Oh,  Edith,  what  a  divine  night! " 

Yet  this  sudden  interruption  was  no  jar  to  Edith; 
here  was  the  human  voice  speaking  as  kindly  and  as 
sincerely  as  the  nightingale.  The  world  was  not  com- 
plete without  its  men  and  women. 

"  I  am  late,"  went  on  Peggy ;  "but  it  was  really  Hugh's 
fault,  who  is  later.  You  don't  know  him,  do  you? 
But  his  name  is  Mr.  Grainger,  and  he  was  playing  *Tild 
Indians  with  the  children,  and  told  them  a  fairy-story, 
the  end  of  which  I  heard,  which  had  no  sense  whatever 
in  it,  and  was  quite  divine.  Yes,  we  won't  think  of 
waiting  for  him.  It  would  make  him  feel  so  strange." 

Lord  Rye  followed  his  wife  out,  and  the  three  of  them 
sat  down.  He  was  a  small,  neat  man,  of  extraordinary 
placidity,  who  regarded  his  wife  rather  as  some  philo- 
sophical citizen  may  regard  a  meteor  that  crosses  the 
sky  above  his  garden.  He  never  ceased  to  admire  and 
wonder  at  her,  and  it  always  seemed  to  him  that  her 
crossing  over  his  own  sky,  so  to  speak,  was  an  act  of 
great  friendliness  on  her  part.  He  often  looked  up  and 
wondered  vaguely  how  fast  she  travelled,  for  the  spec- 
tacle of  her  speed  filled  him  with  gentle  mathematical 
pleasure  at  the  thought  of  the  pace  she  was  going.  He 
knew  too  that  the  sky-streaking  meteor  never  failed 
to  come  home;  that  for  all  her  lightning  expeditions,  she 
dropped  there,  to  her  husband  and  children.  Naturally, 
also,  she  played  about  with  other  meteors,  of  whom 
was  Hugh  Grainger.  He,  too,  lay  about  in  hay  fields 


SHEAVES  23 

and  told  the  children  fairy-stories,  which  they  repeated 
to  their  father.  In  fact,  there  was  never  a  couple  who 
were  so  right  in  both  liking  and  loving  each  other. 

"I  see  that  the  Government  majority  on  the  fifth 
clause  of  the  Education  Bill — "  began  Toby,  when 
he  had  received  his  soup. 

"Oh,  Toby,  don't!"  said  his  wife. 

"Very  well,"  said  Lord  Rye,  and  took  up  his  spoon. 

"Oh,  you  darling!"  said  Peggy.  "Edith,  isn't  he 
a  darling?  Tell  him  so." 

Edith  looked  gravely  at  her  brother-in-law. 

"You  are  a  darling,  Toby,"  she  said. 

"I'm  sure  that's  very  kind  of  you,"  said  Toby. 
"There's  a  Christian  Science  case 

But  the  meteor  interrupted. 

"Toby,  don't  talk  about  things  that  have  happened," 
she  said.  "It's  so  dull!" 

"But  it  hasn't  happened.  I  was  going  to  tell  you 
what  perhaps  might  be  going  to  happen." 

"That's  better,"  said  Peggy.     "Go  on,  dear." 

At  that  moment  Hugh  came  around  the  corner  of 
the  tent. 

"  I  had  to  wash,"  he  said,  in  defensive  apology. 

"Yes,  I  should  think  so,  after  the  hay,"  remarked 
Peggy.  "We've  only  just  finished  soup,  Hughie.  You 
aren't  so  very  late." 

Hugh  looked  round,  vividly,  boyishly.  Coming  out 
of  the  thick  dusk  of  the  garden,  his  eyes  were  a  little 
dazzled  in  the  concentrated  candle-light  of  the  tent. 

"How  are  you,  Lord  Rye?"  he  said,  holding  out  his 
hand.  But  his  eyes  were  elsewhere.  "I  don't  think — " 
he  began. 

"Oh,  you  don't  know  Mrs.  Allbutt,  do  you?"  said 
Peggy-  "Edie,  this  is  Hugh  Grainger." 


CHAPTER  II 

EDITH  ALLBUTT  went  to  her  room  that  night 
feeling  that  she  had  passed  a  very  pleasant  but 
slightly  astounding  evening,  and  that  she  did  not  feel 
in  the  least  sleepy  or  at  all  inclined  to  go  to  bed.  And 
the  astounding  part  of  the  evening,  in  the  main,  had  been 
Hugh.  All  through  dinner  he  and  Peggy  had  fireworked 
away  out  of  sheer  good  spirits  and  a  matchless  joy  of 
living,  and  after  dinner  he  had  been  very  insistent  on 
the  necessity  either  of  going  on  the  river  in  a  punt  or 
playing  ghosts  in  the  garden.  His  huge  high  spirits 
were  quite  clearly  natural  to  him — all  the  fireworking 
was  quite  obviously  the  direct  result  of  that,  and  in  no 
way  at  all  a  social  duty.  These  squibs  and  rockets  were 
as  much  part  of  him  as  his  slight,  slender  frame,  his 
quickness  of  movement  and  gesture,  his  thatch  of  thick, 
close-cropped  hair,  his  vivid,  handsome  face,  with  its 
dark  eyes  and  clear  white  skin.  But  all  dinner-time 
that  was  all  there  was  of  him:  he  was  just  a  boy  with 
excellent  health  and  an  almost  unlimited  capacity  for 
enjoying  himself;  and  at  the  end  of  dinner  she  felt  that 
she  knew  hardly  more  about  him  than  she  had  at  the 
beginning.  She  felt,  however,  though  but  dimly,  and 
she  was  afraid  rather  ungratefully,  for  he  had  been  really 
very  entertaining,  and  it  must  have  been  a  sour  nature, 
which  hers  was  not,  to  feel  otherwise  than  exhilarated 
by  the  presence  of  so  alert  a  vitality,  that  if  he  was 
always  like  that  he  would  become  rather  fatiguing. 
Then  at  once  she  told  herself  that  she  was  an  old  woman, 
and  if  she  could  not  be  young  herself  it  should  be  a  matter 

24 


SHEAVES  25 

of  rejoicing,  not  of  fatigue,  that  other  people  could  be. 
But  that  playing  Indians  with  the  children  before  dinner 
was  a  characteristic  much  more  to  her  mind.  That,  too, 
he  had  not  done,  she  felt,  from  any  direct  wish  to  amuse 
the  children; -he  had  done  it  because  he  enjoyed  it  so 
much  himself.  And  though  the  first  motive  would  have 
been  the  more  altruistic  and  therefore,  she  must  sup- 
pose, the  more  admirable,  she  liked  the  second  one  best. 

Then  after  dinner  had  begun  the  surprises.  The 
boats  were  locked  up.  Lord  Rye  had  gone  indoors, 
Peggy  refused  to  play  ghosts,  and  it  was  clearly  impos- 
sible for  her  to  play  ghosts  alone  with  Hugh.  They 
had  strolled,  all  three  of  them,  up  to  the  veranda  outside 
the  drawing-room,  and  Hugh  had  caught  sight  of  the 
new  Steinway  grand  over  which  Peggy  had,  as  she 
explained,  just  ruined  herself. 

Then  Hugh  had  said : 

"I'll  sing  to  you  if  you  like." 

And  Peggy  had  thanked  him  almost  reverently. 

Edith  remembered  with  extreme  distinctness  what 
she  thought  of  this.  There  was  something  of  the  cox- 
comb about  it;  young  men  ought  not  to  offer  to  sing 
however  well  they  knew  their  hostess.  It  was  just  a 
little  like  Stephen  Guest,  and  for  that  moment  she 
wondered  whether  the  fireworks  after  all  partook,  though 
ever  so  slightly,  of  the  nature  of  "showing-off."  But 
Hugh  went  in  at  once,  and  as  she  and  Peggy  sat  down 
in  chairs  on  the  veranda  close  to  the  open  window  she  had 
said  to  her: 

"Does  he  sing  well?" 

"Yes,  fairly  well,"  said  Peggy;  and  Edith  thought 
she  heard  a  little  tremor  of  laughter  in  her  voice. 

Edith  wondered  as  she  sat  down  what  he  would  sing. 
She  was  herself  intensely  musical,  but  rather  seriously 


26  SHEAVES 

so,  and  she  expected  something  of  "Geisha"  kind — a 
species  of  song  with  which  she  was  not  much  in  sym- 
pathy. Perhaps  even  it  would  be  worse  than  that,  more 
directly  comic,  which  would  be  harder  to  bear.  And 
she  waited  for  the  inevitable  running  up  and  down  of 
the  hands  over  the  keyboard  which  usually  precedes 
the  melody  of  those  who  offer  to  sing.  But  it  did  not 
come.  Instead  there  came  the  one  bar  of  Introduction 
to  Schumann's  "Widmung,"  played  with  the  quiet 
restraint  of  a  real  accompanist,  and  played  quite  simply 
and  perfectly.  And  then  he  sang. 

The  song  was  perhaps  jiis.t  a  shade  low  for  him,  for 
his  voice  was  not  that  which  so  often  does  duty  for  a 
tenor — namely,  a  baritone,  screwed  up,  as  it  were,  and 
nailed  firmly  to  its  new  pitch,  but  a  real  tenor, 
soft  on  its  high  notes,  and  with  the  intense  purity  of 
tone  that  is  seldom  heard  except  in  a  boy's  unbroken 
voice.  But  here  there  was  the  passion  of  the  adult 
voice,  passion  in  all  its  simplicity  and  noble  sincerity. 
Also,  so  she  knew  instantly,  that  voice,  so  wonderful 
in  itself,  had  been  trained  to  the  utmost  pitch  of  perfec- 
tion. Years  of  work,  years  of  patient  learning  under 
some  supreme  teacher  had  gone  to  the  making  of  it. 
All  this  she  perceived  almost  at  once,  for  the  fine  mind 
and  the  cultivated  taste  require  but  little  on  which  to 
found  their  judgment;  and  then  she  thought  no  more 
either  of  the  voice  or  the  singer  or  the  wonderful  accom- 
paniment so  easily  and  surely  handled.  It  was  just 
the  song  that  filled  her:  its  first  fine  careless  rapture, 
its  more  meditative  sequel,  its  whole-hearted  cry  of 
love  and  devotion  at  the  end.  And  on  "Mein  gute 
Geist,  mein  besseres  Ich!"  she  just  laughed;  laughed 
aloud  for  the  pure  pleasure  of  it.  Since  the  beginning 
of  the  scarred  and  maimed  years  she  had  not  laughed 


SHEAVES  27 

quite  like  that.  And  from  inside  Hugh  heard  her  laugh, 
and  that  pleased  him  enormously.  He  knew  he  was 
singing  to  some  one  who  understood,  and  no  applause, 
no  words  of  thanks  and  praise  could  have  spoken  to 
him  so  directly. 

And  when  he  had  finished,  Edith  sat  still,  saying 
nothing,  for  really  there  was  nothing  to  say,  her  mouth 
still  smiling  from  that  laugh,  her  eyes  a  little  dim.  And 
Peggy's  "  Oh,  Hugh!  "  which  was  all  she  said,  was  nearly 
as  appreciative  as  her  sister's  silence. 

He  sang  a  couple  more  songs,  one  by  Brahms  and  the 
short  one- versed  "Am  Jordan"  from  the  "Meister- 
singers,"  and  then  came  and  joined  them  on  the 
veranda. 

'•'And  that's  the  end  of  my  parlour  tricks  this  even- 
ing," he  said.  "I  promised  Reuss  not  to  sing  much  on 
days  when  I  smoked  much.  And  I  have  smoked  much, 
and  will  now  smoke  more." 

"I  wonder  if  you  enjoyed  it  as  much  as  I  did?"  said 
Edith. 

"Oh,  more  probably,  because  it  is  such  fun  doing 
things  oneself! "  said  he. 

"You  must  have  worked  very  hard.  Did  Reuss 
teach  you  entirely?" 

At  this  moment  the  children's  nurse  appeared  in  the 
drawing-room,  and  Peggy  went  in  to  see  what  she 
wanted.  The  interview  seemed  not  to  be  satisfactory, 
for  she  went  upstairs  with  her,  leaving  the  other  two 
alone. 

"Yes,  and  the  brute  says  he  won't  give  me  any  more 
lessons.  Oh,  not  because  I  don't  need  any  more — he 
made  that  delightfully  clear,  though,  of  course,  one 
knew  it — but  because  I  won't  take  it  up  professionally! " 

He  lit  his  cigarette  and  turned  around  to  Edith. 


28  SHEAVES 

"Why  should  I?"  he  said.  "We  really  had  rather 
a  row ;  he  says  it  isn't  fair  on  him." 

Edith  felt  so  keenly  on  this  point  that  before  she 
answered  she  had  to  remind  herself  that  she  had  met 
this  young  man  for  the  first  time  that  evening. 

"Ah,  I  see  his  point  of  view,  I  must  say!"  she  said. 
"  No  voice  is,  as  we  both  know,  worth  anything  till  it  is 
trained.  You  owe  him  a  good  deal ;  everyone  who  hears 
you  sing  owes  him  a  good  deal." 

"But  I  don't  want  to,"  said  Hugh,  as  if  that  quite 
settled  the  matter. 

He  paused  a  moment. 

"Do  let  me  consult  you,"  he  said,  "if  it  doesn't  bore 
you.  You  see,  what  has  happened  is  that  the  Opera 
Syndicate  have  asked  him  if  I  would  take  an  engagement 
for  next  year.  That's  what  we  had  a  row  about." 

"Did  you  definitely  say  you  would  not?" 

"Yes,  but  he  refused  to  take  any  answer  until  I  had 
thought  about  it.  He  said  I  must  take  a  fortnight  to 
consider  it." 

"And  what  were  you  to  sing  in?  " 

Hugh  laughed  again. 

"Really  it  sounds  quite  ridiculous,"  he  said,  "but 
they  suggested  'Tristan.'  'Meistersingers,'  and  'Lohen- 
grin.' Of  course,  I  have  studied  those  particular  parts 
though  I  should  have  to  work  hard  all  autumn  and 
winter.  I  imagine  Reuss  told  them  that.  In  fact,  I 
imagine  he  worked  the  whole  thing." 

Edith  looked  at  him  gravely,  and  across  her  brain 
there  came  so  vividly  the  impression  of  how  he  would 
look  in  the  blue  and  silver  of  Lohengrin,  of  how  that 
silken  voice  would  sound  in  that  dead  silence  of  Lohen- 
grin's entry,  when  he  turns  to  the  swan  with  the  "Nun 
sei  bedankt,  mein  lieber  Schwan,"  that  it  had  almost  the 


SHEAVES  29 

effect  of  actual  hallucination.  Again  she  had  to  remem- 
ber that  he  was  but  a  stranger  to  her,  so  intimate  in 
that  quarter  of  an  hour  when  he  sang  had  his  voice 
made  him. 

"I  don't  think  it  sounds  ridiculous,  Mr.  Grainger," 
she  said.  "Of  course,  it  is  your  business  and  yours 
only  whether  you  say  'Yes'  or  'No.'  But — but  I  think 
we  should  all  come  and  hear  you,"  she  added. 

"Then  if  you  were  me — 

"Ah,  if  I  were  you  I  should,  of  course,  do  whatever 
you  do.  But  not  being  you,  I  can't  understand  you 
refusing." 

She  got  up. 

"Good  gracious! "  she  said.  "  Haven't  you  any  desire, 
any  instinct  to  make  yourself  felt?  I  have  it  so  strongly. 
I  should  so  love  to  impress  myself  on  the  world,  to  know 
that  there  were  hundreds  of  people  listening  to  me,  to 
make  them  laugh  or  cry ,  to  make  them  beside  themselves 
with  happiness  or  mute  from  pure  misery." 

She  paused  a  moment. 

"You  have  consulted  me,  you  know,"  she  said,  "and 
so  it  is  your  own  fault.  I  do  see  also  Reuss's  point 
of  view." 

Then  suddenly  she  burst  out  laughing. 

"And  here  am  I  advising  you  as  to  your  career  when 
a  few  hours  ago  I  had  never  seen  you! "  she  said. 

Hugh  went  straight  off  on  this  tack. 

"Oh,  but  it's  such  dreadful  waste  of  time  getting  to 
know  people!"  he  said.  "Either  one  knows  a  person  in 
a  couple  of  hours  or  so,  or  else  one  never  knows 
him  at  all." 

Peggy  came  down  again  at  this  moment,  looking  as 
if  she  had  been  trying  anyhow  to  be  severe. 

"Edith,   it's  really   bedtime,"     she  said.     "Besides, 


30  SHEAVES 

I'm  going  to  talk  to  you  in  your  bedroom  probably 
for  hours." 

Edith  got  up. 

"Nothing  wrong,  Peggy?"  she  asked.  "Are  the 
children  all  right?" 

"Yes,  only  Daisy  has  announced  her  firm  deter- 
mination to  sit  up  in  bed  and  not  go  to  sleep.  That 
child  can  when  she  chooses  be  naughtier  than  all  the' 
rounds  of  the  Inferno." 

"What  does  Daisy  want?"  asked  Hugh. 

"Oh,  she  heard  you  singing,  and  demanded  that  you 
should  come  up  and  sing  to  her,  otherwise  she  was 
going  to  sit  up  in  bed  until  morning!  " 

"That  doesn't  sound  a  very  good  plan,"  he  observed. 

"It's  a  remarkably  bad  one,  but  her  own.  Daisy 
has  great  strength  of  character,  and  I'm  sure  I  don't 
know  where  she  gets  it  from.  Good  night!  Put  the 
lights  out,  won't  you,  when  you  come  upstairs?" 

It  was  a  very  hot  night,  and  Hugh  stood  at  the  window 
for  a  minute  or  two,  thinking  over  the  evening.  He 
felt  somehow  rather  stirred  and  excited  by  his  two- 
minute  talk  with  Mrs.  Allbutt,  for  it  had  literally  not 
occurred  to  him  at  all  to  think  of  his  decision  as  affecting 
anybody  but  himself,  and  the  idea  that  he  and  his 
actions  could  affect  other  people  meant  an  attitude  of 
mind,  egoistic,  that  was  quite  alien  to  him.  Then 
close  on  the  heels  of  that  came  the  thought  that  upstairs, 
sitting  up  in  bed,  with  firm  determination  on  her  features, 
was  Daisy,  waiting  till  he  came  to  sing  to  her.  That 
honestly  seemed  to  matter  much  more  than  any  operatic 
career,  and  he  put  out  the  lights,  as  he  had  been  desired 
to  do,  and  went  upstairs. 

The  night  nursery,  as  he  knew,  was  just  beyond  his 
own  room,  which  was  opposite  Mrs.  Allbutt's.  She  had 


SHEAVES  31 

turned  into  her  sister's  bedroom  on  her  way  to  her  own 
to  get  a  book,  and  so  it  happened  that  Hugh  passed  on 
to  his  room  while  she  was  still  there.  Just  beyond  was 
the  door  of  the  nursery,  wide  open,  like  its  windows, 
for  Lady  Rye  was  of  the  open-window  school,  and  Hugh, 
with  a  backward  glance  as  if  he  were  rather  guilty,  went 
into  it.  A  night-light  was  burning,  and  dimly  he  saw 
a  little  night-shirted  figure  sitting  straight  as  a  grenadier 
up  in  bed,  in  performance  of  her  vow.  She  hailed  him 
with  a  little  coo  of  delight. 

"Oh,  Hughie,  have  you  come  to  sing?"  she  said. 
"How  long  you  have  been!  And  I  am  so  sleepy! " 

"Sitonim,  you  little  brute,"  said  Hugh,  "you  really 
are  too  naughty!  Why  can't  you  go  to  sleep  properly 
like  Chopimalive?" 

"If  you  have  come  to  scold  me,  like  mummy,"  an- 
nounced Daisy,  with  dignity,  "you  needn't  have  come  at 
all  I  thought " — and  her  voice  quivered  a  little  with  tired 
fretfulness — "  I  thought  you  had  come  to  sing  to  me.  I 
shall  sit  up  just  like  this  until  you  do,  because  I  said  so. 
And  I  am  so  sleepy!" 

Mrs.  Allbutt  had  found  the  book  she  wanted  and 
was  going  to  her  room  close  by,  when  she  heard  the 
pipe  of  the  childish  treble.  At  that,  though  she  was 
an  honourable  woman,  she  deliberately  stopped  and 
listened. 

"But  I'm  sleepy  too,"  said  Hugh. 

A  little  suppressed  sob  was  the  answer. 

"You're  not  as  sleepy  as  me,"  said  Daisy.  "No- 
body could  be.  And  I  must  sit  up  because  I  said  I 
would." 

The  bed  creaked,  and  Mrs.  Allbutt  guessed  that  Hugh 
had  sat  down  on  it. 

"Won't  it  do  if  I  tell  you  a  story?"  he  asked.     "Or  if 


32  SHEAVES 

I  sit  and  wait  here  till  you  go  to  sleep?     I'm  tired  too, 
and  I  don't  want  to  sing." 

"Then  I  shall  go  on  sitting  up,"  said  Daisy.  "And 
I  do  so  want  to  lie  down! " 

"Well,  if  I  sing,  will  you  promise  to  go  to  sleep  properly 
every  evening  for — for  ten  years?"  asked  Hugh. 

" Oh,  yes — twenty! " 

"Well,  then,  shall  I  shut  the  door?  It  might  disturb 
mummy." 

"  I  don't  care,"  said  Daisy  viciously.  "  Besides,  she's 
at  the  other  end  of  the  passage." 

"Well,  then,  lie  down,  and  I'll  sing." 

Daisy  gave  a  little  chuckle  of  delight. 

"Oh,  Hughie,  I  do  love  you!"  she  said.  "Now  lie 
down  by  me  and  put  your  head  on  the  pillow,  same  as  if 
you  were  going  to  sleep.  Oh,  I  told  everybody — nurse, 
mummy,  and  everybody — that  you  would  come.  And 
they  said  you  wouldn't,  and  I  said,  'Oh,  stuff! ' 

"That  wasn't  polite,"  said  Hugh. 

"Well,  they  weren't  p'lite.  Yes,  put  your  head  right 
down,  like  that.  I'm  afraid  you're  too  long  for  my  bed, 
but  it  doesn't  matter.  Oh,  isn't  it  comfortable?  It 
was  awful  sitting  up.  You  needn't  sing  much  you 
know,  if  you're  tired." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Hugh. 

"Now  you're  horrid  again.  Oh,  no,  Hughie,  you're 
not!  But  I  think  being  tired  makes  me  cross." 

"And  what's  it  to  be?"  asked  Hugh. 

This  roused  Daisy  again ;  her  point  was  gained  and  her 
Hughie  was  going  to  sing,  but  at  this  she  became  an 
epicure. 

"Oh,  please,  the — the  'Shepherd's  Song'!  Just  the 
last  verse.  Because  I  don't  think  I  should  be  awake 
if  you  sing  it  all,  and  I  like  the  last  best." 


SHEAVES  33 

"How   does  it  begin?"  asked   Hugh. 

"Oh,  you  silly!  'Sleep,  baby,  sleep.'  Though  I'm 
not  a  baby." 

Mrs.  Allbutt  could  not  help  it:  she  deliberately  spied. 
There  was  a  big  chink  in  the  hinge  of  the  nursery  door, 
and  she  looked  through.  Hugh  was  lying  with  his  black 
head  on  the  pillow,  close  to  Daisy's,  but,  as  she  had  said, 
the  bed  was  not  big  enough,  and  one  foot  was  on  the 
floor  and  the  other  leg  thrown  over  it.  Jim  had  not 
been  awakened,  it  appeared,  by  Daisy's  deviltry,  and 
the  little  yellow  head  on  the  pillow  of  his  bed  was  sunk 
in  sleep.  Daisy  had  dropped  the  grenadier  attitude 
and  was  lying  down  in  her  bed ;  her  two  pale  little  hands 
grasped  one  of  Hugh's. 

"Just  the  last  verse,  then,"  said  Hugh — "'Sleep, 
baby,  sleep!' 

"Yes." 

Hugh  turned  a  little,  so  that  he  could  sing  with  the 
open  throat,  but  softly.  And  he  sang — 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep, 
Our  Saviour  watch  doth  keep  : 
He  is  the  Lamb  of  God  on  high, 
Who  for  our  sake  came  down  to  die  ; 
Sleep,  baby,  sleep. 

The  tune  was  exquisite  and  simple,  simple  and  exquis- 
ite were  the  words.  And  Hugh  sang,  as  the  artist  always 
sings,  as  if  this  particular  song  was  the  one  that  he  had 
longed  and  lived  to  sing.  There  was  the  same  perfection 
as  he  had  shown  downstairs,  and  there  was  no  more 
perfection  possible. 

"And  now  you'll  go  to  sleep,  Sitonim?"  he  said. 

"I  couldn't  help  it,"  said  Daisy. 

At  that  Mrs.  Allbutt  went  swiftly  and  silently  to  her 
room,  and  closed  the  door  craftily. 


34 


SHEAVES 


It  was  all  this  she  thought  over,  expecting  the  hair- 
brushing  visit  from  Peggy.  She  could  have  given  no 
precise  account  of  why  it  should  have  so  taken  possession 
of  her  mind,  except  in  so  far  that  to  the  musical  soul 
the  marvel  of  a  beautiful  voice  is  a  wonder  that  is  ever 
new.  But  it  was  not  Hugh's  singing  alone  that  had  so 
stirred  her;  more  than  all  it  was  this  little  vignette  seen 
through  the  chink  of  the  nursery  door  of  this  radiant 
youth,  with  his  radiant  voice,  lying  with  his  head  on 
Daisy's  pillow,  singing  in  order  to  free  this  very  obstinate 
child  from  her  vow  of  sitting  up  until  he  sang  to  her, 
while  all  the  time  he  knew  quite  well  that  he  ought  not 
to  sing  at  all,  even  if  the  Pope  asked  him  to — nor  prob- 
ably in  the  latter  case  would  he  have  done  so.  And, 
like  an  artist,  he  had  not  mumbled  or  whispered,  though 
he  was  only  singing  to  one  small  girl  by  the  illumination 
of  a  night-light;  he  had  sung  as  if  all  the  world  was 
listening,  as  if  his  career  hung  on  each  'note.  Yet  the 
same  boy  had  rather  turned  up  his  nose  at  the  idea  of 
singing  Walter,  Tristan,  and  Lohengrin  at  Covcnt 
Garden;  it  appeared  to  be  much  better  worth  while,  even 
in  defiance  of  his  master's  orders,  to  sing  Daisy  to  sleep. 

Peggy  followed  soon  after,  having  peeped  in  at  the 
nursery  door  and  seen  that  Daisy  was  already  fast  asleep. 

"Nurse  doesn't  know  how  to  manage  that  child," 
she  said,  with  an  air  of  extreme  superiority.  "I  went 
up  and  just  said  she  had  to  go  to  sleep,  and  that  there 
was  no  question  of  Hugh  coming  to  sing  to  her.  It's 
what  they  call  suggestion." 

Edith  could  not  help  laughing. 

"  But  he  did  go  and  sing  to  her,"  said  she.  "I  heard 
and  saw  him." 

"Oh!  The  suggestion  plan  rather  falls  to  the  ground 
then.  He  oughtn't  to  have  done  it,  but  it's  quite  exactly 


SHEAVES  35 

like  him.  He  wouldn't  sing  any  more  for  us,  but  Daisy 
is  a  different  matter.  He  can  sing  fairly  well,  can't  he? " 

"I  feel  rather  the  reverse  of  Daisy,"  said  Edith.  "I 
feel  as  if  I  shan't  go  to  sleep  because  he  sang.  Oh, 
Peggy,  if  you  have  any  influence  with  him,  do  use  it  and 
make  him  go  on  the  stage !  I  really  think  that  there  is  a 
moral  duty  attaching  to  a  gift  like  that,  just  as  there 
is  a  moral  duty  attaching  to  great  wealth.  Mr.  Grainger 
can't  have  been  given  that  just  to  sing  to  you  and  me 
and  Daisy." 

"  I  know,  but  the  worst  of  it  is  that  that  is  just  the 
argument  one  cannot  use  to  Hugh.  It  would  make 
me  blush  purple  to  say  that  to  him." 

"But  why?" 

"Because,  whatever  else  he  is,  he  is  absolutely  free 
from  self-consciousness.  And  your  argument,  though 
undoubtedly  a  true  one,  suggests  self-consciousness. 
Oh,  I  hate  the  Word  duty  even!  To  say  that  a  thing 
is  one's  duty  implies  one  is  thinking  about  oneself, 
though  no  doubt  from  most  excellent  motives  and  for 
the  sake  of  other  people.  But  when  you  get  a  boy  like 
Hugh,  whose  huge  kindly  instincts  take  the  place  of 
duty,  it  would  be  really  like  corrupting  him  to  suggest 
that  he  had  duties,  or  that  talents  were  given  him  for 
reasons." 

Edith  walked  up  and  down  the  room  considering  this. 

"  Do  you  remember  Comte's  remark  when  the  doctors 
told  him  he  was  dying?  He  said  '  Quel  per  te irreparable,' " 
continued  Peggy.  "There's  the  opposite  of  Hugh." 

"All  the  same,  it  was  an  irreparable  loss, "said Edith, 
"and  so  are  the  years  in  which  Mr.  Grainger  remains 
a  private  nightingale.  He  told  me  this  evening  that  he 
had  been  asked  whether  he  Would  sing  in  three  Wagner 
operas  next  year.  Oh,  make  him,  Peggy!  Or  hasn't 


36  SHEAVES 

he  got  stern  parents  of  any  description,  or  musical  uncles 
who  will  cut  him  off  with  a  penny  if  he  doesn't? " 

"Well,  we'll  try.  I  didn't  know  they  had  made  him 
a  definite  offer.  But  though  you  might  not  think  it, 
Hugh  is  wonderfully  obstinate.  People  clatter  and 
shriek  all  around  him,  and  he  sits  in  the  middle,  brilliant 
and  smiling  and  patient  till  they  have  quite  finished. 
And  then  he  goes  on  exactly  as  before." 

"He  might  do  worse,"  said  Mrs.  Allbutt.  "By  the 
way,  will  you  ask  him  to  the  box  for  the  first  night  of 
'Gambits'?  You  haven't  asked  anybody  else  yet 
have  you?" 

"No;  I  didn't  know  whether  you  wanted  anybody 
in  particular.  I  think  three  will  be  enough.  Four 
in  a  box  usually  means  that  the  two  men  are  frigidly 
polite  to  one  another;  and  both  sit  at  the  very  back  of 
the  box  and  see  nothing  whatever.  It's  much  better 
to  be  three,  so  that  we  can  all  put  our  elbows  on  the 
cushion.  Were  you  at  the  rehearsal  to-day?" 

"  Oh,  yes;  I  went  to  see  a  little  more  of  my  grave  dug! 
From  the  way  things  are  getting  on,  it  should  be  quite 
ready  for  me  to  lie  down  in  on  Thursday  night." 

"My  dear,  what  nonsense!  Besides,  every  manager 
likes  rehearsals  to  go  badly.  Good  rehearsals  mean  a 
bad  first  night.  Bad  rehearsals  give  a  sort  of  courage 
of  despair,  which  is  far  the  most  efficient  sort.  Oh, 
Edith,  it's  good  too,  and  you  know  it!  Dear  Andrew 
Robb!  What  a  name  to  have  chosen!  Anyhow,  I 
don't  think  a  soul  has  guessed  who  wrote  it." 

"I  don't  see  how  anybody  could  have,"  said  Edith. 
"Nobody  knows  except  you  and  Mr.  Jervis,  and  I  never 
speak  to  him  in  the  theatre.  He  always  comes  to  see 
ine  afterwards,  and  we  make  what  we  can  out  of  the 
rather  undecipherable  notes  I  have  scribbled." 


SHEAVES  37 

Again  she  moved  restlessly  up  and  down  the  room. 

"But  whatever  happens,"  she  said,  "I  shall  never 
regret  having  written  it.  It  really  kept  me  alive  and 
sane,  Peggy,  during  the  first  two  years  after  Dennis's 
death.  I  think  I  must  have  gone  mad  otherwise.  But 
the  bringing  to  birth  of  that  child  of  one's  brain  kept 
me  alive ;  and  whether  it  proves  to  be  a  miserable  little 
deformed  cripple  or  a  healthy  baby  is  another  question." 

Peggy  rose  to  go. 

"Ah,  you  darling!"  she  said,  kissing  her.  "And  it 
is  all  healed  now,  is  it  not?" 

Edith  smiled  at  her. 

"Yes,  I  think  it  is  healed,"  she  said.  " But  you  know 
things  can't  be  quite  the  same;  it  can  never  be  quite 
as  if  those  years  had  never  happened.  If  one  has  had 
a  wound,  a  burn,  though  the  skin  grows  over  it  and  the 
doctors  say  it  has  healed  perfectly,  yet  it  isn't  soft  and 
smooth  like  other  skin.  It  is  hard,  as  if  Nature  instinct- 
ively gave  an  extra  protection  over  the  place  that  had 
been  hurt.  And  this  was  over  my  heart,  dear." 

Peggy  sighed. 

"I  know  you  think  like  that,"  she  said,  "but  you 
won't  always.  Think  how  much  you  have  regained 
of  yourself  in  these  three  years.  How  much  of  you 
there  is  again,  when  a  year  or  two  ago,  dear  Edith,  there 
was  so  little  of  anything.  Make  it  complete  again  some 
day." 

"Marry,  do  you  mean?"  asked  she. 

"  Why,  of  course.  No  woman  is  herself  until  she  finds 
her  man.  And  really,  dear,  you  are  beginning  to  sit 
up  and  take  notice,  as  they  say  of  children.  Do  find 
him!" 

"At  the  age  of  forty-two  it  requires  a  good  deal  of 
search,"  said  Edith. 


38  SHEAVES 

"You  are  not  forty-two.  People  don't  have  any 
age  until  they  cease  to  matter.  You  matter  immensely. 
Why,  supposing  I  were  to  go  about  London  saying  you 
were  forty-two,  people  would  say  that  I  must  be  fifty! 
No  woman  is  any  age  until  people  cease  to  care  about 
her." 

Edith  shook  her  head. 

"Oh,  Peggy,  if  one  suffers,  then  certain  things  become 
unrecapturable !  One  begins  some  day  to  acquiesce  in 
one's  limitations.  When  one  is  really  young  everything  is 
possible;  when  one  is  old  most  things  are  inconceivable." 

"Now  you  are  talking  like  Andrew  Robb,"  remarked 
Peggy. 

"Of  course,  because  I  am.  One's  age  is  measured 
by  what  one  expects  from  life.  And  to  be  quite  candid, 
dear,  I  expect  very  little.  I  hope  on  my  own  account 
to  continue  being  moderately  agreeable,  and  quite 
patient,  and  quite  pleased  that  other  people  should 
enjoy  themselves.  But  as  for  the  heart -beat,  the  long 
breath — why,  that  is  finished." 

"That  is  the  ridiculous  heresy  that  women  only  love 
once,"  said  Peggy.  "I  have  known  heaps  of  women 
who  have  loved  heaps  of  times.  They  have  to!d  me  so 
themselves." 

"Go  to  bed,  Peggy,  because  you  are  getting  flippant. 
You  don't  understand.  Pleasures?  Good  gracious, 
yes,  I  hope  to  have  lots  of  them.  I  shall  go  mad 
with  pleasure  if  Andrew  Robb  proves  successful ;  I 
shall  look  forward  even  for  a  whole  year  to  seeing 
Mr.  Grainger  play  Lohengrin,  just  as  for  a  whole  year 
I  shall  look  forward  to  seeing  whether  the  Delphiniums 
you  sent  me  will  do  well  at  Mannington.  I  shall ' 

"Oh,  darling,  you  shall  shut  up !"  said  Peggy  deci- 
sively. "  You  may  call  me  flippant,  but  you  are  cynical, 


SHEAVES  39 

whether  I  call  it  you  or  not,  when  you  speak  of  expecting 
nothing  more  from  life.  And  I  would  sooner  be  any- 
thing than  cynical — even  a  dentist.  Where  will  you 
breakfast?  And  why  my  Mr.  Granger?  Answer  cate- 
gorically, please,  and  don't  argue,  because  it  is  late." 

Edith  laughed. 

"Categorically  then,  it  is  your  Mr.  Grainger  because 
you  introduced  him  to  me :  I  will  breakfast  in  my  room, 
and  I  want  two  eggs.     Otherwise  I  don't  get  through  the 
morning." 
.     "Indeed?     What  happens  instead?" 

"It  is  interminable,  of  course." 

"You  shall  have  three,"  said  Peggy. 

No  sort  of  grass,  not  even  the  commonest  varieties, 
ever  grew  under  Peggy's  feet,  and  thus  having  promised 
to  see  what  could  be  done  with  regard  to  inducing  Hugh 
to  accept  this  offer  of  the  Opera  Syndicate,  she  laid  her 
plans  next  morning  without  loss  of  time,  and  instead 
of  going  to  church  as  she  ought  to  have  done,  sent 
Toby  there  with  Chopimalive  and  Sitonim — who  had 
slept  till  morning — and  announced  to  Hugh  that  the 
whole  duty  of  this  particular  man  was  to  take  her  out 
in  a  punt. 

"And  Mrs.  Allbutt?"  he  asked. 

"Will  lunch  with  us  at  one-thirty,"  said  Peggy. 

This  was  in  the  nature  of  an  ultimatum,  and  Hugh, 
when  it  was  thus  put  firmly  before  him,  behaved  like 
the  Sultan  of  Turkey  and  did  as  he  was  told.  But 
Peggy  Was  not  quite  sure  that  there  Was  not,  so  to  speak, 
a  good  deal  of  Moslem-fanaticism  smouldering  below 
this  apparent  docility.  However,  she  established  her- 
self comfortably  on  a  heap  of  cushions,  and,  remarking 
on  the  beauty  of  the  view,  put  up  a  huge  contadina 
umbrella  that  extinguished  it  for  rmiles  round. 


40  SHEAVES 

"Now,  we  won't  go  far,"  she  said,  "because  you  will 
get  so  dreadfully  hot  punting.  Simply  broiling,  isn't 
it?  Oh,  Hugh,  how  beautifully  you  do  it!  I'm  sure 
you  would  win  all  the  punt-races  if  you  went  in  for 
them." 

Hugh  put  his  head  on  one  side,  as  if  listening  very 
carefully;  then,  having  considered  this  remark  in  all 
its  bearings,  he  put  his  tongue  in  his  cheek.  His  face, 
however,  was  hidden  from  Peggy  by  the  expanse  of  the 
red  umbrella,  and  she  went  guilelessly  on. 

"You  do  such  a  lot  of  things  so  nicely,"  she  went  on, 
"but  you  never  do  anything  with  them.  I'm  sure  you 
could  write  a  beautiful  fairy-story  just  like  'Alice  through 
the  Looking-Glass.' ' 

"You  mean  'In  Wonderland,'  I  suppose?"  said  Hugh. 

"  I  dare  say.     Or  you  could  win  punting  races." 

Hugh  removed  his  tongue  from  his  cheek  merely 
because  he  wanted  it  for  the  purposes  of  speech.  Fig- 
uratively, it  was  there  still. 

"I  am  writing  a  volume  of  fairy-tales — several,  in 
fact,"  he  said;  "and  I  am  going  in  for  the  punting 
championship  of  Northern  Europe." 

"Oh,  how  can  you  tell  such  stories?"  said  Peggy. 

"Easily.  There's  not  the  slightest  difficulty  about 
it.  You  had  better  put  down  your  parasol  a  moment. 
I  am  going  to  tie  up  underneath  those  trees." 

"Oh,  but  we've  hardly  gone  a  hundred  yards!"  said 
she. 

"No;  but  it  is  clearly  your  purpose  to  argue  with 
me.  I  can't  argue  while  I'm  punting.  If  you  like, 
we  will  drift  down  mid-stream,  but  there  are  a  good 
many  excursion  steamers  about." 

They  tied  up  accordingly  just  below  Odney  Weir, 
and  since  Peggy  intended  to  begin  arguing  at  once,  it 


SHEAVES  41 

did  not  seem  worth  while  to  disclaim  the  intention  of 
doing  so. 

"You  sing  so  well  too,"  she  said.  "Surely  you  ought 
to  do  something  with  some  of  those  things?  Now, 
don't  interrupt;  as  you  insist  on  it,  I  did  come  out  to 
argue  with  you." 

"But  the  argument  is  to  be  conducted  without  any 
interruption  from  me?"  asked  Hugh. 

"Yes.  You  see,  you  are  twenty-four,  aren't  you? — 
which  is  really  middle-age  nowadays,  when  everybody 
is  past  everything  at  forty,  and  it's  time  you  did  some- 
thing. It  doesn't  really  matter  much  what  you  do, 
as  long  as  you  do  something.  'Men  must  work,'  as 
Mr.  Kingsley  said." 

Dead  silence  from  Hugh,  according  to  instructions. 
Peggy  wanted  to  argue  the  question  on  general  lines 
and  make  him  suggest  singing  as  a  profession,  since  she 
did  not  officially  know  of  this  offer  of  the  Opera  Syn- 
dicate. Hence  she  continued  with  glorious  generalisa- 
tions. 

"You  see,  it  is  a  necessity  to  work,"  she  said,  "for  all 
of  us,  though  I  think  Mr.  Kingsley  said  that  women 
only  had  to  weep,  but  I  cease  at  this  point  to  use  him 
as  an  authority.  Good  heavens,  how  dull  I  should  find 
London  if  I  only  went  to  luncheon  and  dinner  and  balls 
and  concerts !  Life  is  simply  idiotic  unless  you  do  some- 
thing. And  doing  things  is  much  more  necessary  for 
men  than  for  women,  because  men  are  not  naturally 
frivolous;  they  are  only  frivolous  because  women 
ask  them  to  play  about,  like — like  the  flower-maidens 
and  Parsifal." 

Hugh  gave  a  little  explosion  of  laughter. 

"I  beg  your  pardon!"  he  said.  "I  didn't  mean  to 
interrupt." 


42  SHEAVES 

"Then  don't,  because  I  am  going  on  until  I  have 
finished.  Good  gracious,  I  think  that  one  of  the  saddest 
sights  that  the  world  has  to  show  is  an  unoccupied 
bachelor,  who  is  always  ready  to  go  out  to  tea,  or  make 
the  fourteenth,  when  there  would  otherwise  be  thirteen! 
I  have  been  in  a  good  many  slums  and  factories  and  shel- 
ters, but  I  have  never  seen  anything  quite  so  sad  as  that." 

"You  must  have  been  reading  the  works  of  President 
Roosevelt!"  said  Hugh. 

"Not  one  line,  but  I  have  occasionally  driven  up  and 
down  St.  James's  Street  and  looked  at  the  row  of  bald 
heads,  back  to  the  windows  in  clubs.  Those  wretches 
read  the  Times,  or  more  probably  the  Daily  Mail,  all 
morning,  and  totter  out  to  lunch.  They  read  some  pink 
or  green  paper  all  afternoon,  and  totter  out  to  dinner. 
Then  they  go  to  bed,  and  close  their  weary  eyes  till  late 
on  in  the  following  morning.  Hugh,  you  will  become 
like  them  if  you  don't  take  care." 
.  "May  I  speak?"  asked  he. 

"  No.  I  am  much  older  than  you,  because  I  am  thirty- 
eight,  though  I  don't  look  it,  and  you  needn't  say  that. 
And  all  through  those  fourteen  years  which  separate 
us  I  have  been  always  learning  one  thing- — that  happi- 
ness lies  in  being  busy.  Years 

Then  the  romantic,  the  picturesque,  that  always  beats 
in  Celtic  blood — and  she  was  half  Irish — came  to  her 
tongue. 

"The  years,  or  time,  whatever  it  is,  are  like  a  golden 
river  that  flows  round  us,"  she  said.  "You  may  just 
sit  in  it,  as  you  are  doing,  and  watch  the  golden  iridescent 
stream  flowing  and  combing  round  you.  That  is  letting 
it  run  to  waste.  But  use  your  brain,  Hughie,  and 
let  your  brain  talk  to  your  fingers,  and  let  your  fingers 
pull  a  bit  of  the  water  into  your  grasp,  and  that  which 


SHEAVES  43 

you  thought  was  only  just  water,  just  the  passage  of 
time  in  this  heavenly  world,  is  a  real  tangible  thing,  a 
golden  thing,  and  your  fingers  will  make  a  golden  some- 
thing— a  book  or  a  statue  or  a  song — out  of  it.  You 
must  mould  and  carve  this  bit  of  time,  and  when  it  is 
finished  you  will  let  it  float  down  again  on  the  golden 
river  of  time,  and  those  who  come  after  will  see  it  and 
handle  it." 

He  did  not  want  to  interrupt  now.  Peggy,  as  he 
well  knew,  was  "doing"  something  for  more  hours 
in  the  day  and  for  more  days  in  the  year  than  any  one 
he  knew,  and  it  was  not  often  that  this  vein  of  romance 
surged  to  the  surface.  She  had  quite  forgotten,  it  must 
be  confessed,  the  missionary  enterprise  on  which  she 
had  set  out  an  hour  ago  at  her  sister's  suggestion.  Just 
now  she  was  speaking  not  from  another's  wish,  but  out 
of  her  own  heart. 

"Oh,  we  ought  all  to  be  so  busy !"  she  said,  "grasping 
at  the  golden  time  and  moulding  it,  every  drop  of  it, 
into  golden  images!  Also,  when  we  do  that,  we  are  not 
only  using  time,  we  are  saving  it.  It  is  all  ours,  and  it  is 
only  spent  and  wasted  when  we  let  it  go  by.  What- 
ever we  make  of  it  is  invested;  it  becomes  things  of 
gold  that  float  down  on  the  golden  river.  Ah,  don't 
you  see,  Hughie?" 

He  was  grave,  too,  now. 

"Then  do  I  waste  time  when  I  tell  the  children  fairy- 
stories  and  sing  to  you?"  he  asked. 

"No,  you  dear;  but  make  bigger  things.  Write 
your  book  of  fairy-stories,  which  you  said  you  were 
Writing — only  I  didn't  believe  you!  Or  win  a  punt  race 
even — only  I  didn't  believe  you!  Take  hold  of  the 
world  somehow,  sing  to  it,  or — or  do  anything  to  it," 
she  added,  afraid  she  had  betrayed  her  knowledge. 


44  SHEAVES 

Hugh  was  extremely  susceptible,  using  that  word 
not  in  the  confined  sense  of  being  easily  influenced  by 
a  woman,  but  in  the  larger  meaning  of  being  quick  to 
be  caught  by  an  idea.  To  be  a  weather-cock  is  a  phrase 
that  has  had  attached  to  it  a  sense,  if  not  opprobrious, 
at  any  rate  a  little  depreciatory;  but  in  reality  to  be 
fitted  with  that  simile  is  the  highest  praise,  since  it 
implies  the  wonderful  sensitiveness  of  the  temperament 
that  is  never  other  than  artistic.  To  catch  and  to 
record  the  faintest  breeze  that  blows  is  a  better  gift 
than  to  stand  four-square  like  a  tower  and  defy  the  winds 
of  heaven.  It  is  not  denied  that  the  four-square  towers 
are  eminently  useful,  and,  as  far  as  usefulness  of  this 
sort  is  concerned,  the  weather-cock  is  not  in  any  way 
comparable  to  them.  Yet  the  blowing  and  breathing 
of  the  winds  is  perhaps  worth  record,  and  the  towers 
do  not  show  it.  And  if  Hugh  was  obstinate,  as  Peggy 
had  declared  he  was,  he  was  obstinate  perhaps  with  the 
deadly  obstinacy  of  weather-cocks,  which,  however 
much  the  world  in  general  shouts  "Northeast!"  wilt 
continue  to  register  southwest  if  it  seem  to  them  that 
the  wind  is  coming  from  that  quarter.  There  may  be 
clattering  and  screaming,  as  she  had  said,  but  the  weather 
cock  goes  on  exactly  as  before.  On  this  occasion  Hugh, 
perhaps  because  he  had  received  commands,  did  not  argue 
and  even  when  Peggy  said  "Well,  what  have  you  got  to 
say?"  only  pleaded  her  original  command  in  defence. 
But  his  tongue 'had  been  in  his  cheek  before,  and  as  he 
punted  her  back  again  for  lunch  it  again  came  out. 

"I  want  to  ask  you  one  question,"  he  said.  "But 
pray  don't  answer  it  unless  you  wish.  Did  Mrs.  Allbutt 
tell  you  that  the  Opera  Syndicate  had  made  me  a  certain 
offer?  Mind,  I  don't  draw  any  conclusions  if  you  refuse 
to  answer." 


SHEAVES  45 

Peggy  had  put  up  the  huge  red  umbrella  again,  but 
at  this  she  put  it  down  with  a  snap. 

"Hughie,  I  will  never  tell  you  not  to  talk  again,"  she 
said,  "for  I  believe  you  guess  best  when  you  are  silent. 
When  did  you  guess?" 

"Oh,  I  guessed  right  at  the  beginning!"  he  said. 

"  But  I  did  it  very  well,"  she  said. 

"  Quite  beautifully.  And  you  used  beautiful  language 
about  the  golden  river.  But — 

"Well?"  asked  Peggy. 

"Oh,  nothing  particular!  I  was  only  going  to  suggest 
that  it  would  have  been  simpler  to  have  advised  me  at 
once  to  accept  their  offer;  or  at  any  rate,  to  have  asked 
me  whether  I  intended  to,  instead  of  suggesting  that  I 
should  go  in  for  punt-racing.  Mrs.  Allbutt  also  advises 
me  to  accept.  But  I  have  practically  made  up  my  mind 
not  to.  Here  we  are  again  at  home;  what  a  pleasant 
morning. " 


CHAPTER  III 

PEGGY  RYE,  probably  one  of  the  happiest  people 
in  London,  was  unquestionably  one  of  the  busiest, 
and,  as  is  the  habit  of  really  busy  people,  could  always 
find  time  for  everything.  She  pursued  her  myriad 
schemes  of  philanthropy  and  kindness  not  only  with  a 
sense  of  duty,  but  brought  to  them  a  lively  and  genuine 
interest  that  made  unshrinkable  homespuns,  innocuous 
wallpapers,  unphosphorescent  matches  and  leadless  glaze 
things  in  themselves  attractive  and  absorbing.  If  she 
was  not  opening  a  bazaar  she  was  triumphantly  closing 
some  factory  in  which  the  conditions  of  work  were 
injurious  to  the  employes;  and  there  were  but  few  days 
when  she  was  in  town  on  which  her  great  barrack  of  a 
house  in  Pall- Mall  was  not  open  to  something  of  an 
alleviating  and  charitable  nature.  The  house,  in  fact, 
as  Hugh  had  once  remarked,  was  a  sort  of  Clapham 
Junction  of  philanthropy,  and  relief  trains  ran  screaming 
through  it  in  all  directions  and  at  the  shortest  possible 
intervals,  while  she,  like  a  general  pointsman  for  all  the 
lines,  tugged  at  her  levers  and  sent  the  trains  all  on  their 
various  ways.  Her  levers,  it  may  be  remarked,  were 
of  various  kinds,  and  it  was  firstly  her  own  energies,  her 
position,  her  time,  her  wealth  that  she  cheerfully  and 
eagerly  devoted  to  her  charitable  deeds;  but  secondly 
she  used  the  time,  position,  and  money  of  her  friends, 
plundering  them  with  the  utmost  avidity  and  merciless- 
ness.  She  insisted  on  their  putting  up  new  wallpapers 
— even  though  those  they  had  were  still  recent — which, 
though  perhaps  ugly,  were  not  stained  with  the  blood 

46 


SHEAVES  47 

of  work-people.  She  made  them  buy  homespun  and 
tweeds  which  they  did  not  want  in  order  that  Irish 
peasants  should  not  want  either;  and  she  compelled 
them  to  load  their  dinner-tables  with  new  services, 
which  it  was  possible  to  eat  off,  she  explained,  in  com- 
fort, without  the  feeling  at  the  back  of  your  mind  that 
every  time  you  took  a  spoonful  of  soup  you  were  really 
— so  dreadful  was  the  mortality  at  some  of  these  china 
factories — committing  an  act  of  cannibalism.  She 
even  saw  the  bright  side  of  the  extreme  friability  of 
these  uncannibal  plates,  because  it  so  soon  became 
necessary  to  order  some  more. 

In  the  same  way  too  she  used  her  friends'  gifts ;  those 
who  were  musical  had  to  play  the  piano  or  the  violin 
or  sing  at  her  concerts  at  Rye  House,  while  the  less- 
gifted  might  confine  themselves  to  taking  guinea  tickets ; 
those  with  histrionic  gifts  were  expected  to  place  them 
at  her  service,  and  even  go  so  far  as  to  buy  the  dresses 
in  which  they  would  appear,  and  pay  their  fares  to 
distant  parts  of  the  country  in  order  to  assist  deserving 
objects  in  the  manufacturing  districts;  poets,  major 
and  minor  alike,  wrote  odes  which  the  less  poetical  had 
to  buy  at  really  scandalous  prices;  those  with  gardens 
filled  her  bazaars  with  the  finest  orchids  and  all  that  was 
best  and  rarest  in  their  greenhouses;  and  though  Peggy 
was  ruthless,  persistent,  and  merciless  in  her  demands 
nobody  ever  resented  or  refused  them,  and  only  when 
goaded  past  all  bearing — as,  for  instant,  when  she 
wanted  to  give  a  bazaar  during  Ascot  week — told  her 
that,  though  she  appeared  not  to  know  it,  there 
were  limits.  For,  as  has  been  said,  she  had  the  most 
valuable  of  all  social  gifts — namely,  the  habit  of  enjoying 
herself,  which  is  quite  irresistible,  and  though  she  did 
not  spare  them,  she  was  even  more  merciless  to  herself. 


48  SHEAVES 

It  must  be  remarked  too  that  without  taking  a  cynical 
view  of  the  efforts  and  services  of  her  friends,  it  was 
unquestionably  a  very  comfortable  thing  for  those  of 
otherwise  wordly  inclinations  to  be  friends  of  Peggy's, 
for  she  did  not  confine  herself,  as  might  be  gathered,  to 
making  the  lower  classes  more  comfortable  at  the  cost 
of  all  comfort  to  the  upper,  but  she  ministered  with  the 
same  eager  unwearying  kindness  to  their  tastes,  and  if 
those  who  were  musical,  for  instance,  lent  her  their 
talents  in  aid  of  her  schemes,  she  on  her  side  was  always 
ready  to  lend  them  her  opera-box,  and  entertained  largely 
both  in  town  and  country.  She  was  also  in  this  cara- 
vanserai of  London  one  of  the  very  few  people  who 
really  "mattered,"  and  though  her  wealth  and  the  way 
in  which  she  spent  it  might  be  supposed  to  have  some- 
thing to  do  with  this,  such  a  supposition  would  be  en- 
tirely false  where  there  were  so  many  more  wealthy 
than  she  who  would  spend  their  uttermost  farthing  to 
"matter,"  yet  never  succeeded  in  doing  so.  What 
mattered  was  her  wisdom  and  her  charm,  and  the  cachet 
so  seldom  won,  of  a  woman  of  this  kind  who  instead  of 
spending  a  busy  life  in  amusing  herself,  spent  it  seriously 
in  ameliorating  the  condition  of  the  people,  while  at 
the  same  time  she  gave  and  went  to  dances,  entertained 
and  was  entertained  and  was  entertaining.  Socially 
she  enjoyed  herself  immensely,  and  with  her  big  house, 
her  genius  as  hostess,  her  deep-rooted  desire  that  other 
people  should  enjoy  themselves,  especially  at  her  expense, 
she  was  on  a  pinnacle  in  her  own  world,  while,  like  some 
skilful  circus-rider  of  two  horses,  she  used  all  this  to  sell 
her  guinea  tickets  and  make  people  buy  the  leadless 
glaze  of  her  innocuous  dinner-services.  She  would, 
in  fact,  couple  her  invitation  to  a  week-end  party — not 
at  the  sequestered  cottage  at  Cookham,  but  at  the  big 


SHEAVES  49 

house  at  Kingston — with  a  request  for  a  couple  of 
pianoforte  solos  from  some  renowned  player  at  the 
forthcoming  concert  in  aid  of  some  specialised  sort  of 
cripples  in  a  manner  of  which  the  significance  could 
scarcely  be  missed. 

Peggy  had  the  rather  rare  and  wholly  enviable  faculty 
of  being  able  to  sit  down  and  think,  and  when  sitting  to 
arrange  her  thoughts,  and  having  arranged  the  particular 
strain  of  them  which  occupied  her,  to  dismiss  them 
again.  Thus  when  she  left  Cookham  the  following  day 
in  order  to  open  a  bazaar  at  the  Waynfleet  Hall  in  the 
afternoon,  she  lunched  in  the  train,  arranged  her 
thoughts,  which  were  concerned  with  the  speech  she 
Was  going  to  make,  and  when  she  arrived  at  Paddington 
was  at  leisure  again,  and  able  to  give  herself  up  to  that 
most  entrancing  form  of  entertainment — namely,  the 
mere  watching  of  the  busy,  jostling  life  of  the  streets. 

But  how  that  spectacle  enthralled  her!  To  her  keen 
and  vivid  mind  there  was  no  such  delectable  pasture 
on  which  to  browse,  and  not  even  the  liquid,  dustless 
lawn  and  river  were  so  entrancing.  Much  as  she  loved 
the  swift  play  of  mind  on  mind,  much  as  she  loved  the 
mere  quietude  of  Thames  and  green  forest,  or  the  idle, 
nonsensical,  vivid  intercourse  with  friends,  or  with  friends 
the  grave  note  that  Was  often  struck,  there  was  nothing 
more  attune  to  her  than  this  sight  of  the  eager  crowded 
streets,  alive  with  strangers,  each  an  enigma  to  her  and 
not  less  an  enigma  to  himself.  Hugh  had  once  said  to 
her  that  he  always  got  up  early  even  in  this  London  of 
late  hours  for  fear  of  missing  something,  and  that 
sentiment  appeared  to  her  wholly  admirable.  What 
he  was  afraid  of  "missing"  neither  he  nor  she  knew; 
indeed,  had  it  been  a  definite  "missing"  it  must  have 
been  an  engagement  or  appointment  of  some  sort, 


5° 


SHEAVES 


which  would  have  been  devoid  of  romance.  It  was 
the  very  vagueness  of  it  that  to  her  half-practical,  half- 
Celtic  mind  was  so  attractive.  "Something  might 
have  happened,"  he  had  said,  "and  how  dreadful  to 
have  been  asleep  like  a  pig!"  That  was  so  like  him, 
and  yet  it  was  like  him  too,  though  unsatisfactory,  that 
he  should  do  nothing  definite  with  this  life,  that  he 
should  refuse  this  wonderful  offer  to  sing  at  Covent 
Garden.  Artist-like,  he  had  for  the  last  four  years 
absolutely  devoted  himself  to  the  cultivation  of  his 
voice,  spending  the  five  winter  months  in  every  year 
in  the  desolating  town  of  Frankfort,  so  as  to  allow  no 
distraction  to  interfere  with  his  lessons,  and  now  when 
a  practical  reward  for  his  industry  was  offered  him  he 
refused  it.  To  her,  as  to  Edith,  it  seemed  almost  a 
crime;  a  miracle  of  a  voice  had  been  given  him,  and 
also  part,  though  not  all,  of  the  artistic  temperament 
which,  like  genius,  has  unlimited  capacities  for  taking 
pains.  But  what  had  been  left  out  was  ambition ;  he 
had,  strong  as  an  instinct,  the  internal  need  of  learning 
all  he  could  of  the  art  of  singing,  but  not  the  wish  to 
dazzle  and  hold  the  world.  It  was  for  singing's  sake 
that  for  five  months  in  every  year  he  had  cheerfully 
undergone  the  incomparable  tedium  of  Frankfort,  not 
for  the  sake  of  knowing  that  on  the  other  side  of  the 
footlights  the  huge  hushed  house,  packed  from  stall 
to  gallery,  was  holding  its  breath  in  expectation  while 
he  stood  before  the  masters  in  the  meadow  by  the 
Pegnitz,  or,  as  Tristan,  strained  dying  eyes  over  the 
untenanted  blue  of  the  Cornish  sea  for  the  ship  that 
came  not,  or  voyaged  miraculously  on  the  swan  to 
where  by  the  Scheldt  the  maiden  Elsa  called  on  her 
unknown  and  nameless  champion.  That  at  present 
anyhow — the  sting  and  goad  of  ambition,  of  impressing 


SHEAVES  51 

himself  on  others — had  not  awoke  in  him;  he  did  not 
in  the  least  care  whether  the  world  knew  that  he  sang 
as  long  as  Reuss  knew  it  and  he  knew  it.  To  Edith  his 
refusal  seemed  criminal,  for  never  before,  as  far  as  she 
knew,  had  a  man's  voice  arrived  so  early  at  maturity, 
and  perhaps  at  perfection.  At  last  the  ideal  Wagner 
hero  had  come,  one  who  Was  still  young,  still  with  all 
the  glow  and  thrill  of  youth  on  him ;  at  last  it  Was  pos- 
sible to  see  a  Tristan  who  was  not  middle-aged  and 
obese,  and  a  Lohengrin  who  should  indeed  be  the  ideal 
of  a  girl's  dream;  and  these  possibilities  were  all  ruled 
out  because  Hugh  "didn't  want  to."  It  was  as  if  the 
key  that  unlocked  some  priceless  treasure  Was  put  into 
the  hands  of  an  idle,  irresponsible  child,  who  might 
throw  open  the  jewelled  case,  but  simply  did  not  care 
to  turn  the  key. 

Peggy  made  an  effort  to  bring  back  her  thoughts  into 
their  more  usual  channels,  for  at  this  point  she  became 
aware  again  that  she  was  driving  down  Pall  Mall  and 
wasting  her  time  terribly  in  thinking  about  Hugh 
instead  of  devouring  the  crowded  pavements,  and  she 
turned  her  attention  to  them.  There  was  an  elderly 
man  exactly  like  a  rabbit,  talking  with  a  curious  nibbling 
movement  of  the  mouth  to  a  middle-aged  woman  whose 
face  was  like  a  chest  of  drawers,  square,  obviously  use- 
ful, with  knobs  on  it.  Then  she  passed  a  hansom  in 
which  was  sitting  Arthur  Crowfoot,  one  of  those  red-hot 
faddists  who  spend  their  whole  time  in  pursuing  health- 
giving  practices.  He  had  spent  all  April  in  deep- 
breathing,  and  one  was  liable  to  come  across  him  even 
in  the  streets,  or  sitting  on  a  little  green  chair  in  the 
Park,  looking  rather  apoplectic  because  he  Was  holding 
his  breath  for  ten  seconds  previous  to  expelling  it  slowly 
through  his  left  nostril  while  his  right  was  firmly  closed 


S2  SHEAVES 

by  his  finger.  Then  he  gave  up  deep-breathing,  and 
devoted  May  to  the  open-air  cure,  being  quite  well 
already,  with  the  result  that  he  caught  a  dreadful  cold. 
That,  however,  he  had  remedied  by  giving  up  eating 
flesh  and  living  on  a  curious  gray  paste  made  of  nuts 
and  drinking  water  in  sips  for  an  hour  or  two  every  day. 
At  this  moment  he  was  observing  his  tongue  rather 
anxiously  in  the  looking-glass  of  his  hansom,  and  so  did 
not  see  Peggy.  She  registered  the  premonition  that 
nut-paste  would  probably  be  soon  abandoned.  How 
heavenly  people  were! 

Then — she  was  really  in  luck — she  found  all  sorts  of 
enchanting  things.  A  circus  was  going  somewhere, 
and  the  elephant  at  this  colossal  moment  did  not  want 
to  go.  Instead  he  wanted  buns,  and  with  a  view  to 
getting  them  had  taken  his  stand,  kindly  but  extremely 
firmly  on  the  pavement  opposite  the  Guards'  Club  and 
had  inserted  his  trunk  through  the  open  window  of  the 
smoking-room;  he  picked  up  a  Pall  Mall,  waved  it 
hysterically  in  the  air,  and  then  ate  it.  A  little  further 
on  two  intensely  English-looking  men,  appearing  to  be 
rather  annoyed  with  each  other,  wanted  to  pass,  the  one 
going  east,  the  other  west.  But,  with  aggrieved  and 
offended  faces,  they  danced  a  sort  of  sideways  minuet 
in  front  of  each  other,  choosing  the  same  side  simulta- 
neously. Then  a  man  on  a  bicycle  approached,  with  a 
tied-up  look  about  his  face.  Peggy  could  not  imagine 
why  he  looked  so  tied-up,  until  a  hideous  convulsion 
seized  him  and  he  sneezed.  The  pavement  had  been 
lately  watered,  his  bicycle  skidded,  and  he  fell  off. 
And  how  she  longed  to  go  back  and  see  whether  the 
elephant  had  any  more  beautiful  plans! 

Mrs.  Allbutt  was  staying  while  in  London  with  her 
sister  and.  brother-in-law,  in  the  huge  chocolate-coloured 


SHEAVES  53 

house  in  Piccadilly  which  Hugh  had  called  the  Clapham 
Junction  of  good  works.  Half  a  dozen  families  could 
easily  have  been  accommodated  there  without  coming 
into  the  contact  too  close  for  perfect  liberty  of  action; 
and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  friends  and  relations  were 
encouraged  to  and  did  treat  it  rather  like  a  hotel  without 
bills'.  "  For  what,"  as  Peggy  said,  "is  the  use  of  dwelling 
in  marble  halls  in  this  very  central  situation  unless  one's 
friends  will  come  and  dwell  there  too?"  So  they  came 
and  dwelt,  since  Peggy  with  true  hospitality  besought 
everybody  to  make  any  arrangements  they  chose,  to 
ask  anybody  to  dinner  or  to  go  out  to  dinner,  or  to  have 
high  tea  exactly  as  they  wished  without  consultation 
or  notice  given  to  her  provided  only  that  one  motor- 
car should  be  considered — as  indeed  it  Was — her  private 
property,  and  not  to  be  used  without  reference  to  her. 
Similarly,  on  days  of  big  dinner  parties  she  asked  that 
the  intentions  of  any  of  those  staying  with  her  should 
be  notified  as  soon  as  convenient,  so  that  the  servants 
should  not  go  mad;  but  in  the  ordinary  routine,  when 
one  person  Was  going  to  the  opera,  and  another  to  the 
theatre,  and  a  third  dining  quietly  at  home  at  eight, 
people  simply  went  to  the  dining-room  at  the  time  they 
had  appointed,  and  there,  as  by  a  miracle,  always  found 
that  something  Was  ready  for  them. 

Thursday  evening,  in  fact,  the  night  when  Andrew 
Robb  was  going  to  make  his  bow  before  the  dramatic 
world,  was  a  typical  instance  of  an  ordinary  night. 
Lord  Rye  was  going  to  the  opera  with  his  sister,  and  had 
ordered  dinner  for  half-past  seven.  Peggy,  Mrs.  All- 
butt,  and  Hugh  were  going  to  dine  at  seven,  in  order  to 
be  in  time  for  the  first  fatal  and  excruciating  rise  of  the 
curtain;  while  Frank  Adams  and  his  a  week  of  whirl 
had  been  down  to  Ascot  all  day,  and  preferred  to  dine 


54  SHEAVES 

at  home,  and  go  to  a  ball  afterward.  Peggy  herself  had 
been  delayed  in  a  manner  which  it  had  been  impossible 
to  foresee  over  some  charitable  visit  to  the  East  End, 
and  returned  at  exactly  seven,  meeting  Edith  as  she 
came  downstairs  dressed  on  the  way  to  her  room. 

"Darling,  I  am  late,"  she  said,  "and  it  wasn't  my 
fault.  You  look  perfectly  beautiful,  and  how  you  can 
be  so  calm!  Go  in  "with  Hugh  as  soon  as  he  comes, 
won't  you,  and  don't  wait  for  me,  because  we  must  be 
there  in  time." 

She  whirled  on  to  her  room,  and  Edith,  finding  a 
letter  or  two  for  her  on  the  table  by  the  hall  door, 
stopped  to  read  them,  and  witnessed  Hugh's  arrival, 
who,  like  Peggy,  seemed  somehow  to  be  going  faster 
than  usual,  and  on  dismounting  instantly  became 
involved  in  a  dispute  with  the  cabman. 

"But  as  I  haven't  got  any  money,  I  can't  pay  you," 
he  said  rather  shrilly.  "  I  forgot,  as  I  tell  you,  to  bring 
any,  though  I'm  frightfully  rich.  But  if  you'll  call  at 
Dover  Street  to-morrow — 

The  cabman's  contribution  to  the  dispute  was  to 
say  "Cheating  a  pore  cabby!"  at  intervals.  He  said 
it  now. 

"But  you  are  so  unreasonable,"  continued  Hugh. 
"No,  I  won't  give  you  my  watch.  Oh,  there's  a  foot- 
man! I  dare  say  I  can  borrow  some.  Would  you  give 
me  eighteen  pence,  please?  No,  a  shilling." 

Hugh  handed  him  the  shilling. 

"And  if  you  hadn't  been  so  rude, "  he  said,  "you  should 
have  had  eighteenpence,  so  I  hope  it  will  be  a  lesson  to 
you.  Oh,  there  you  are,  Mrs.  Allbutt!  Aren't  cabmen 
ridiculous  ?  Am  I  late  ? " 

"Peggy  is  later,"  she  said.  "She  has  only  just  come 
in.  We  are  to  begin  without  her." 


SHEAVES  55 

They  went  into  the  dining-room,  in  which  were  several 
small  tables,  and  took  their  seats  at  one  laid  for  three. 

"I  am  never  quite  sure  if  I  enjoy  first  nights,"  said 
Hugh;  "which  sounds  polite  as  I  am  going  with  you 
to  one,  but  I  am  so  agitated  on  behalf  of  the  actors. 
And  how  the  author  can  bear  it  at  all  is  a  thing  that 
passes  comprehension.  I  don't  see  how  he  can  bear 
to  be  present,  and  of  course  it  Would  be  beyond  human 
power  for  him  to  stop  away." 

"Ah,  but  the  name  of  Andrew  Robb  inspires  me  with 
confidence!"  said  she.  "The  name  doesn't  sound  as 
if  he  was  likely  to  be  nervous." 

Hugh  looked  at  her  with  deep  interest. 

"You  don't  suppose  there  is  an  Andrew  Robb,  do 
you?"  he  asked.  "I  feel  certain  there  isn't.  Nobody 
ever  really  Was  called  that,  do  you  think?" 

"I  don't  see  any  inherent  impossibility  in  it." 

"Oh,  surely  it  can't  happen!  Do  you  often  go  to 
first  nights?" 

"Hardly  ever,"  said  she.  "Until  this  last  fortnight, 
I  don't  suppose  I  have  slept  in  town  half  a  dozen  times 
in  the  last  three  years." 

"  How  wise." 

"Yet  Peggy  tells  me  that  you  are  the  most  confirmed 
of  Cockneys,  and  are  in  town  nine  months  out  of  the 
twelve." 

"Yes;  but  then  I  like  it,"  said  Hugh,  eating  fish  very 
fast.  "So  that  is  wise  also.  How  few  people  know 
what  they  like! " 

"Yes,  but  does  that  surprise  you?  I  think  it  is  rather 
difficult  to  know  what  one  likes.  Anyhow,  most  people 
only  see  the  world  through  the  eyes  of  others.  In 
consequence  they  only  like,  or  think  they  like,  what 
other  people  like." 


56  SHEAVES 

"I  know  what  I  like,"  remarked  Hugh  roundly. 

"And  what  is  that?" 

"Oh,  almost  everything!"  he  said. 

"I  sincerely  congratulate  you,"  said  she.  "There  is 
no  gift  so  enviable  as  that  of  liking." 

Mrs.  Allbutt,  as  Hugh  noticed  for  the  second  time 
and  more  emphatically  than  before,  had  a  voice  of 
singular  charm,  and  to  him,  to  whom  the  ear  was  the 
main  organ  of  communication  between  his  soul  and  that 
of  things  external  to  him,  it  seemed  a  voice  of  wonderful 
temperament.  It  was  very  level  in  tone  and  pitched 
on  rather  a  low  note  for  woman,  but  the  quality  of  it  was 
fine,  clear  but  a  little  veiled,  as  if  it  came  from  really 
inside  her  brain,  not  from  her  throat  merely.  Her 
utterance,  too,  had  great  distinction;  there  was  nothing 
slurred  or  clipped  about  it,  the  words  stood  up  like 
flowers  in  a  field,  and  her  personality  gave  them  its 
significance ;  what  she  said  was  no  echo  of  other  voices ; 
it  was  genuine,  personal,  as  much  hers  as  her  face  or  her 
cool  long-fingered  hands.  Even  had  she  talked  mere 
gibberish  her  voice  would  have  been  a  thing  to  listen 
to  for  the  melody  of  it;  as  it  was,  its  music  was  but  the 
accompaniment  to  her  thought  so  delightfully  made 
audible.  At  the  moment,  however,  while  these  very 
simple  and  sincere  sounds  still  dwelt  on  his  ear  like  song, 
Peggy,  gorgeously  though  so  hastily  attired,  came  in 
with  a  rush,  snapping  a  bracelet  on  to  her  wrist. 

"Ah,  but  if  only  the  Government  would  bring  in  an 
eight-hour  day  for  the  upper  classes,"  she  cried,  "how  I 
would  work  for  them — Conservative,  Liberal,  Socialist, 
whatever  they  were!  I  have  been  on  the  warpaths  of 
charity  since  nine  this  morning,  which  makes  ten  hours 
already,  and  if  you  think  I  have  done  yet — why,  you're 
mistaken  T  have  been  mistaken  too,  because  I  find 


SHEAVES  57 

that  my  ladyship  is  at  home  at  eleven,  and  I  quite  forgot. 
So  you'll  come  back  with  us,  Hugh,  won't  you,  after  the 
theatre?  Can't  you?  How  tiresome  of  you!  There's 
going  to  be  no  dancing,  but  we  are  going  to  talk  to  each 
other  for  an  hour.  And  at  twelve  a  glass  slipper  of 
rather  large  size  is  coming  for  me,  and  I'm  going  to  a 
ball.  I  wish  I  was  dead!" 

"No,  dear,  you  don't,"  said  Edith. 

"Anyhow,  why?"  asked  Hugh. 

"  Because  I  shan't  want  to  go  out  again,  and  I  must. 
But  one  knows  quite  Well  that  one  enjoys  everything 
when  one  is  doing  it.  I  even  enjoyed  my  dentist 
yesterday,  because  he  is  a  Christian  Scientist  and  told 
me  I  had  no  nerves  in  my  teeth,  and  even  if  I  had  they 
wouldn't  hurt,  because  mortal  mind,  as  far  as  I  under- 
stood him,  did  not  really  exist." 

"Then  there  should  have  been  no  teeth  either,"  re- 
marked Hugh. 

"  I  thought  of  that  too,  but  my  mouth  was  full  of 
syringes  and  syphons  and  pads  of  cotton-wool  so  that 
I  couldn't  talk.  Oh,  yes,  doing  things  is  always  pleasant, 
whatever  they  are!  Now  you,  Hugh,  won't  do  things." 

Hugh  nodded  at  her. 

"No;  that  is  the  other  point  of  view.  The  one  you 
don't  see." 

"  Have  you  written  to  Reuss? " 

"Not  actually,  because  he  refused  to  take  any  answer 
for  a  fortnight.  But  practically." 

"And  what  is  the  other  point  of  view,"  she  demanded 
— "  the  one  I  don't  see? " 

Hugh  looked  from  one  to  the  other;  it  seemed  as  if 
Mrs.  Allbutt  also  was  waiting  to  hear  about  the  other 
point  of  view. 

"Merely  that  to  be  effective,  to  do  things,  however 


58  SHEAVES 

excellently,  isn't  necessarily  the  only  thing  in  the  world 
worth  living  for.  As  you  say,  you  like  doing  things; 
you  would  be  bored  and  discontented  if  you  were  not 
flying  about  like — like " 

"Well?"  said  Peggy. 

"Well,  if  you  don't  mind,  like  a  bee  against  a  glass 
window,"  said  Hugh.  "You  go  banging  about  in  all 
directions,  and  stopping  really  in  pretty  much  the  same 
place." 

"You  serpent!"  said  Peggy.     "Pray  go  on!" 

"  I  think  I  will,  because  I've  been  thinking  about  it, 
and  I  probably  shall  forget  unless  I  say  it  soon.  Oh, 
I  think  I  was  wrong  about  the  bee  and  the  glass  window ! 
At  least,  it  only  partly  applies  to  you,  for  you  do  get 
through  things,  although,  like  the  bee,  you  only  charge 
wildly  at  them.  But  you  like  working  sixteen  hours  a 
day  and  having  no  time  for  lunch;  it  pleases  you.  Add 
to  that  that  you  have  a  nice  nature,  and  it  follows 
that  you  work  sixteen  hours  a  day  for  the  sake  of  other 
people.  But — 

Hugh  pointed  an  almost  threatening  finger  at  her. 

"  But  if  you  had  to  work  sixteen  hours  a  day  for  your- 
self you  wouldn't  have  the  slightest  idea  what  to  do. 
You  can  improve  the  condition  of  other  people  to  any 
extent,  but  you  haven't  got  any  idea  as  to  how  to  im- 
prove your  own.  The  time  would  hang  very  heavy 
for  you  if  you  had  to  use  it  all  in  improving  your  mind. 
Consequently  you  tend  to  think  that  people  who  do  try 
to  improve  their  minds  are  lazy.  You  haven't  got  any 
real  sympathy  with  art  or  music  or  literature,  and  you 
mainly  want  me  to  go  and  squall  at  the  opera  be- 
cause you  feel  that  I  shall  then  be  doing  something 
definite." 

Peggy  Put  both  her  elbows  on  the  table. 


SHEAVES  59 

"  Go  on  about  me,"  she  said.  "  It's  deeply  interesting. 
Coil  and  wriggle  and  sting,  you  dear  serpent!" 

"Very  well.     You  are  hopelessly  conventional." 

Peggy  gasped. 

"Conventional?"  she  asked. 

"Yes.  You  have  often  urged  me,  for  instance,  to 
go  into  Parliament,  merely  because  it  Was  the  obvious 
thing  to  do.  You  yourself  do  all  the  conventional 
things  with  almost  fanatical  enthusiasm — bazaars,  and 
Fridays  in  Lent,  and  garden  parties  to  congenital  idiots. 
It  is  all  so  stereotyped;  there  is  nothing  original  about 
it,  except  when  you  induce  your  friends  to  buy  dinner- 
services  that  melt  and  dissolve  when  the  soup  touches 
them,  and  then  expect  them  to  buy  more.  You 
can't " 

Hugh  paused  a  moment. 

"Ah,  I  have  it!"  he  said.  "You  can't  think  of  any- 
thing. And  you  don't  want  to." 

Peggy  looked  at  him  in  a  sort  of  comic  despair. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about,"  she  said. 

"Because  you  never  thought  of  it  before,"  said  he. 
"  Oh,  I  know  what  I  mean  quite  well!  Do  say  it  for  me, 
Mrs.  Allbutt,"  he  said,  turning  to  her. 

She  smiled  at  him. 

"Do  you  know  the  thing  called  the  ^Eolian  harp?" 
she  said.  "  It  is  a  matter  of  a  few  strings,  and  you  put 
it  up  in  a  tree,  and  whatever  happens,  whether  it  blows 
a  gale  or  whether  the  sun  shines  or  whether  it  is  frosty, 
the  ^Eolian  harp,  as  I  imagine  it,  always  responds  and 
makes  music  of  some  kind." 

"Oh,  but  the  ^Eolian  harp — "  began  Peggy. 

"Dear,  this  is  a  peculiar  sort  of  ^Eolian  harp.  The 
ordinary  one  only  makes  sound  when  the  wind  blows, 
but  I  imagine  one  which  turns  everything  into  song. 


60  SHEAVES 

It  is  the  romanticist,  the  dreamer.  It  is  neither  moral 
nor  immoral;  it  is  only  exquisitely  sensitive,  not  only  in 
matters  of  the  heart,  in  sympathy,  in  kindness,  but  in 
intellectual  things." 

Hugh  laughed. 

"Oh,  how  nice  it  sounds!"  he  cried.  "Do  let  us  all 
go  and  be  ^Eolian  harps!" 

Then,  with  one  of  his  quick  eager  movements,  he 
turned  to  Peggy. 

"That's  the  other  ideal,"  he  said.  "To  catch  all 
there  is  and  turn  it  into  song." 

But  Peggy  was  grave. 

"But  there  are  so  many  things  that  can't  be  turned 
into  song,"  she  said,  "and  since  I  very  wisely  recognise 
that,  I  try  to  turn  them  into  shillings.  There  is  no 
romance  about  a  wretched  family  dying  of  lead-poisoning 
and  there  is  no  song  about  it  except  funeral  hymns. 
Besides,  I  gather  that  Hugh  wants  to  be  an  JEolian  harp. 
Well,  that's  just  what  I  want  him  to  be.  The  whole 
point  of  the  argument  has  been  that  he  should  turn 
things  into  song  at  Covent  Garden." 

She  got  up. 

"We  must  go,"  she  said,  "because  we  have  to  be  there 
at  the  rise  of  the  curtain.  Will  you  follow  us  in  a  han- 
som, JEolian  harp?" 

The  two  sisters  drove  off  together  in  the  motor,  which 
was  the  only  thing  of  her  own  that  Peggy  laid  claim  to. 

"Me  conventional!"  she  said,  with  a  sudden  spurt 
of  indignation.  "Or  am  I?"  she  demanded,  turning 
to  Edith. 

"I  suppose  everybody  who  is  very  young  like  that 
thinks  other  people  rather  conventional,"  she  said. 
"But  to  be  conventional  in  that  sense  is  unfortunately 
necessary,  if  one  is  to  do  anything  with  life.  One  has 


SHEAVES  61 

to  choose  one's  line  and  stick  to  it,  and  not  mind  about 
other  lines — disregard  them,  in  fact." 

"But  he  didn't  call  you  conventional,"  said  Peggy, 
still  humorously  indignant.  "Besides,  I  Want  people 
to  work.  It  makes  them  happy." 

"Ah,  it  makes  you  happy,  you  mean;  and,  of  course, 
many  people  would  be  happier  if  they  did  work.  But 
I  am  not  sure  that  working  may  not  be  a  sort  of  sub- 
stitute only  for  the  great  thing." 

"What's  the  great  thing?" 

"Why,  living.  I  never  feel  sure  that  working  is  not 
a  sort  of  drug  that  makes  us  dream  We  are  living.  To 
be  really  alive  matters  so  much  more  than  anything." 

Peggy  looked  at  her  in  some  alarm. 

"Pray  say  none  of  those  dangerous  things  to  Hugh," 
she  said,  "or  we  shall  certainly  never  hear  him  in 
Tristan!" 

"  I  am  afraid  he  thinks  of  them  for  himself,"  said  she. 
' '  But  the  mistake  he  makes  is  in  thinking  that  working 
interferes  with  living.  It  doesn't.  People  who  can't 
live  only  get  a  substitute  for  it  in  work  which  will  make 
them  happy,  but  people  who  are  really  alive  are  not 
less  so  by  working." 

"Ah,  that  is  much  sounder!"  said  Peggy.  "Here 
We  are  in  the  queue  already.  It  appears  to  extend  from 
the  Circus  to  Hyde  Park  Corner." 

Edith  gave  a  little  groan;  something,  either  the  dis- 
cussion at  dinner,  or  those  with  whom  she  had  dis- 
cussed, had  completely  taken  her  mind  off  what  was 
coming.  The  sight  of  the  queue,  however,  recalled  her. 

"Aren't  you  hugely  excited?"  continued  Peggy. 
"  How  can  you  help  being?  And  yet  you  look  as  if  you 
were  going  out  for  a  drive  in  the  country  to  see  the  place 
where  Izaak  Walton  was  born." 


62  SHEAVES 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  were  going  to  see  the  place  where  Edith 
Allbutt  was  buried,"  remarked  that  lady,  "and  it  ap- 
pears to  me  to  be  gruesomely  interesting.  And  the 
whole  world  seems  to  be  coming  to  the  funeral  service." 

"Ah,  but  not  a  soul  guesses  who  Andrew  Robb  is!" 
said  Peggy.  "I  feel  sure  of  that." 

"But  Mr.  Grainger,  probably  among  many  more, 
said  that  it  was  quite  obvious  there  couldn't  be  an 
Andrew  Robb.  It  did  seem  unlikely  when  he  men- 
tioned it." 

"But  if  it's  a  huge  and  howling  success,  as  I  know 
it  will  be,"  said  Peggy,  "won't  you  unmask  Andrew?" 

Edith  shook  her  head. 

"Not  till  the  play  is  established,"  she  said.  "When 
it  has  run  fifty  nights  I  will." 

Again  she  groaned  slightly. 

"It  hasn't  run  one  yet,"  she  said  tragically,  "and 
perhaps  it  won't.  Oh,  Peggy,  I  know  I  have  fallen 
between  several  large  hard  stools.  'Gambits'  isn't 
risky,  so  one  section  of  the  audience  will  yawn;  it  isn't 
melodramatic,  so  another  section  will  cough;  it  doesn't 
contain  any  horse-play,  so  a  third  will  fidget.  I  quite 
realise  that  now,  and  I  shall  join  in  the  booing  myself. 
How  do  you  boo?  Never  mind,  I  shall  soon  know. 
And  at  the  dress  rehearsal  this  morning  nobody  appeared 
to  know  one  single  line  of  his  part,  and  the  curtain 
stuck  at  the  end  of  the  second  act. 

"Ah,  but,  as  told  you,  a  brilliant  dress  rehearsal  means 
failure!"  said  Peggy.  "And  isn't  it  just  possible  that 
a  section  of  the  audience  will  like  a  play  because  it  is 
neither  indecent  nor  farcical?" 

"I  don't  think  so,"  said  Edith.  "But  in  any  case 
I  shall  be  a  Turveydrop  of  deportment,  and  shall  join 
in  the  booing." 


SHEAVES  63 

"That  will  be  insincere,"  said  Peggy. 

They  were  in  plenty  of  time  for  the  rise  of  the  curtain, 
and  indeed  the  orchestra  had  only  just  begun  to  play 
what  was  called  an  "arrangement"  from  "La  Tosca" 
when  they  took  their  places.  Hugh,  who  with  masculine 
cunning  had  directed  his  cabman  to  have  nothing  to  do 
with  the  queue,  but  to  drive  boldly  up  the  centre  of 
Piccadilly  and  stop  in  the  middle  of  it  opposite  the  thea- 
tre, had  got  there  before  them,  and  was  already  in  the 
box,  watching  the  rapid  filling-up  of  the  theatre.  Cer- 
tainly the  production  of  this  piece  had  roused  consider- 
able interest,  and  some  minutes  before  the  curtain  rose 
the  house  was  packed  in  every  corner,  while  the  shrill 
buzz  of  conversation,  always  so  eager  and  expectant 
on  a  first  night,  nearly  drowned  the  arrangement  from 
"La  Tosca."  For  London,  whatever  its  faults  may  be, 
is,  like  Athens,  passionately  fond  of  anything  new,  and 
the  production  by  one  of  the  best-known  actor- 
managers  in  the  middle  of  the  season  of  a  play  about 
the  author  of  which  nothing  was  known  was  an  event 
that  thoroughly  aroused  its  curiosity.  The  stalls  and 
boxes  were  crammed,  the  pit  Was  one  huddle  of  close- 
packed  faces,  and  the  gallery  was  as  if  a  swarm  of  bees 
had  settled  on  it.  Higher  and  more  shrill  rose  the  buzz 
of  conversation  from  all  parts  of  the  huge  hothouse, 
glittering  with  lights.  Then  suddenly  the  lights  went 
out,  the  orchestra  stopped,  a  rustle  of  settlement  sounded 
in  the  darkened  theatre,  and  the  curtain  Went  up.  Hugh, 
too,  settled  down  with  a  sigh  of  contented  expectancy. 

"  I  am  so  nervous! "  he  said.  "Just  think  of  Andrew 
Robb." 

The  act  was  rather  long  and  though  there  were  no 
signs  of  impatience  audible  in  the  house,  yet  the  skilled 
observer  of  audiences  would  not  have  been  completely 


64  SHEAVES 

satisfied  with  the  quality  of  the  silence.  They  \\cre 
silent,  it  is  true,  and  their  silence  probably  betokened 
attention,  but  it  was  not  as  yet  the  throbbing  palpitating 
silence  that  shows  absorption.  As  in  all  first  acts,  a 
good  deal  of  preliminary  work  had  to  be  got  through; 
the  lady  in  the  blue  dress  had  so  to  characterise  herself 
in  half  a  dozen  lines,  that  even  if  she  appeared — as  she 
probably  would — in  the  second  act  in  a  totally  different 
colour,  there  could  be  no  mistaking  that  it  was  she ;  the 
lady  in  green  had  to  be  Mrs.  Ashworth  and  no  other;  all 
the  coining  of  personality  had  to  take  place,  so  that  it 
came  hot  and  ringing  from  the  genuine  human  mint. 
Also  the  lines  of  circumstance  had  to  be  laid  down ;  and 
it  should  have  been  clear  to  the  mind  of  the  skilled  what 
the  reasonable  outcome  must  be.  Only  it  was  not  quite 
clear;  there  were  still  nebulous  points,  and  on  the  fall 
of  the  curtain  Hugh  instantly  put  his  finger  on  what 
seemed  to  be  the  weak  point. 

"Rather  long,  wasn't  it?"  he  said.  "And  Weren't 
there  too  many  aimless  bits  of  talk?  Oh,  they  were 
well  written;  I  thought  the  dialogue  excellent,  just 
like  people,  but  one  wants  plot,  and  one  wants  point." 

Peggy  glanced  instantaneously  at  her  sister. 

"Ah,  but  what  seems  to  be  pointless  in  a  first  act 
may  prove  to  have  very  sharp  points!  "  she  said.  "One 
can't  tell.  There  certainly  were  a  lot  of  excursions  in 
the  dialogue,  and,  of  course,  if  they  prove  to  lead 
nowhere,  the  play  is  hopeless.  But  one  has  to  see." 

Edith  moved  so  that  she  sat  in  the  shadow  of  the  curtain . 

"Yes,  the  criterion  of  the  first  act  is  the  last,"  she 
said.  "You  can't  tell  if  it  is  a  good  first  act  till  you 
have  seen  the  end.  Don't  you  think  so,  Mr.  Grainger? 
I  quite  agree,  though,  that  it  seemed  long.  It  seemed 
frightfully  long  to  me." 


SHEAVES  65 

Hugh  shook  his  head. 

"No,  I  think  you  ought  to  know  or  guess  at  the  last 
act  from  the  first,"  he  said — "or  anyhow  guess  two  or 
three  possible  ends.  Here  you  can't.  Look  at  the 
hero!  At  least,  I  suppose  Mr.  Amherst  is  the  hero. 
But  he  never  knows  his  mind  from  one  minute  to  another. 
He  is  utterly  inconsistent." 

"But  isn't  it  possible  that  his  weakness  of  purpose 
may  be  the  point  of  the  play?" 

"I  never  thought  of  that.  Oh,  but  how  interesting 
if  it  is  so!  But  it  can't  be,  because  that  would  make 
him  like  a  real  person,  and  modern  plays  never  resemble 
real  people  in  any  Way.  No;  I  bet  you  it  is  a  bad  play. 
Mr.  Amherst  is  going  to  develop  some  totally  new  and 
overpowering  characteristic  which  will  make  the  whole 
of  the  first  act  a  waste  of  time.  Do  bet!" 

"On  the  possible  ability  of  Andrew  Robb?"  asked 
Mrs.  Allbutt.  "  I  have  seen  nothing  to  warrant  it." 

The  opinion  of  the  house  in  general  tended  to  coincide 
with  Hugh's;  and  the  critics,  those  Olympians  of  the 
intellect,  who  can  leave  a  theatre  not  before  eleven  in 
the  evening  and  have  a  column  about  it  in  their  respec- 
tive engines  of  the  press  next  morning,  yawned,  gathered 
together  in  the  foyer,  with  a  sense  of  coming  futility. 
Those,  too,  who  had  come  in  obedience  to  Peggy's 
commands  wondered  whether  Andrew  Robb  might  not 
be  some  discovery  of  hers  whom  she  had  found  scrib- 
bling fragments  of  dialogue  in  the  dinner-hour  at  the 
leadless  glaze  factory.  Certainly  it  Was  very  clever  of 
him  if  this  was  so,  and  also  very  clever  of  dear  Peggy, 
even  if  it  was  pushing  leadless  glaze  rather  far.  No 
doubt  at  her  little  gathering  to-night  after  the  play  one 
would  glean  something.  And  the  band,  having  chopped 
"Pagliacci"  up  into  bits,  like  murderers  trying  to  conceal 


66  SHEAVES 

a  body,  was  silent  again,  and  the  curtain  rose  for  the 
second  time. 

It  had  not  long  been  up  when  silence  of  quite  another 
quality  began  to  spread  like  some  waveless  tide  over  the 
theatre.  What  had  seemed  idle  talk  in  the  first  act  took 
significance,  and  on  what  was  dark  and  featureless 
a  dawn,  sad  enough  no  doubt  but  intensely  human, 
began  to  show  the  contours  of  landscape;  the  audience 
began  to  "see."  Little  careless  sentences,  remembered 
because  of  a  certain  distinction  and  unusualness  in  them, 
flashed  back  again  into  the  brain ;  here  was  their  meaning ; 
they  were  plot,  they  were  character.  And  the  inconsis- 
tent, vacillating  hero  became  every  moment  more  pa- 
thetically human.  His  inadequacy  in  dealing  with  little 
things  developed  into  the  helplessness  of  a  weak  man 
before  things  that  are  not  little.  Poignant  domestic  suf- 
fering, remediable  probably  by  a  strong  man,  seemed  to 
paralyse  him;  he  could  not  make  his  move,  his  gambit. 
Slowly  too  and  inevitably  the  counteraction  of  her  who 
Was  becoming  his  adversary  was  apparent. 

It  was  a  short  act,  and  the  curtain  came  down  swift 
as  the  guillotine  knife  with  supreme  dramatic  fitness 
the  moment  that  the  whole  of  the  position  that  had 
through  indecision  become  almost  irremediable  was 
revealed.  Then  for  a  moment  there  was  dead  silence 
and  afterward,  before  any  applause,  a  huge  buzz  of  eager 
conversation,  everyone  talking  to  his  neighbour,  argu- 
mentative, each  with  his  own  idea  of  the  solution,  of 
the  gambit  that  would  be  selected  in  the  third  and  last 
act.  To  th~.  Audience  the  play  had  ceased  to  be  a  play ; 
it  had  become  a  piece  of  life,  and  in  an  hour  the  actors 
had  become  old  friends.  Stalls  argued  right  and  left; 
boxes  were  knots  of  eager  disputation ;  the  pit  was  babel. 
And  for  some  three  minutes  this  went  op.. 


SHEAVES  67 

Hugh  was  characteristic  of  the  rest. 

"Oh,  I  am  glad  I  didn't  bet,"  he  said,  "because,  of 
course,  that  is  the  point!  He  might  do  several  things 
all  of  which  Would  be  characteristic.  What  heavenly 
people,  poor  Wretches!  Why,  they  are  like  you  and  me 
— so  I  suppose  we're  heavenly  too.  It  isn't  a  play  at 
all.  It's  It!  What  will  be  the  way  out?  Why,  we 
are  in  the  theatre  after  all!" 

He  stood  up  and  began  applauding  violently.  The 
same  fact — namely,  that  they  were  in  a  theatre — seemed 
to  strike  the  rest  of  the  house  simultaneously,  and  from 
the  buzz  of  conversation  there  rose  the  storm  of  clapping 
and  shouting.  And  once  again  Peggy  looked  secretly 
across  to  her  sister. 

The  usual  barbaric  ceremonies  followed ;  the  principal 
actor  appeared,  with  a  fearful  grin  on  his  face,  bowed, 
and  retired.  He  came  on  again  and  did  it  again.  Then 
for  the  third  time  he  appeared,  hand-in-hand  with  the 
leading  lady,  and  repeated  this  double  appearance. 
Again  and  again  he  appeared  each  time  leading  on  an 
additional  character,  in  the  manner  of  "The  House  that 
Jack  Built,"  till  everybody  who  had  been  seen  at  all, 
down  to  the  typewriter  who  was  mute  throughout  the 
action,  had  joined  his  procession.  Then  the  curtain 
went  finally  down,  and  stray  bars  of  "Cavalleria"  were 
occasionally  heard,  for  nobody  left  the  theatre,  but 
continued  arguing  till  it  went  up  again. 

Tense  silence,  but  after  some  ten  minutes  somebody 
blew  his  nose.  Pure,  simple  pathos,  the  striving  of  a 
weak  man  to  do  his  best  and  finding  his  best  failing  was 
there.  But  with  that  a  certain  bravery,  foreshadowed 
from  the  beginning,  a  quiet  courage  began  to  grow  out 
of  the  wreck.  And  then  came  the  simple  solution, 
quite  unexpected  but  absolutely  sincere  and  inevitable, 


68  SHEAVES 

sad  perhaps  with  the  sadness  of  sunset,  but  bringing 
its  own  consolation  in  the  fact  of  the  hot  weary  day 
being  over. 

It  was  long  before  Hugh  would  leave  the  box,  for  he 
was  one  of  those  who  like  to  say  "Thank  you!"  when 
they  have  enjoyed  themselves,  and  the  procession  had 
to  pass  again  and  again  before  he  and  the  rest  of  the 
house  were  in  the  least  satisfied.  Then  Mr.  Amherst 
had  to  explain  that  Andrew  Robb  was  not  present,  he 
had  to  thank  his  friends,  he  had  to  say  that  their  pleasure 
was  his,  and  that  he  did  not  know  when  he  had  been  so 
deeply  touched.  Yes,  and  Mr.  Robb  really  was  not 
present. 

Eventually,  however,  the  three  left  the  house.  Hugh 
was  going  on  to  his  dance,  and  saw  the  two  sisters  into 
their  motor.  There  was  a  block  ahead  of  them,  and  till 
it  cleared  he  talked  to  them  through  the  window. 

"  I  shall  come  to  '  Gambits'  every  night,"  he  announced, 
"and  all  day  I  shall  search  for  Andrew  Robb." 

"And  when  you  find  him?"  asked  Peggy. 

"I  shall  black  his  boots,  if  he  will  let  me.  I  shall 
learn  to  fold  clothes  and  apply  for  a  place  as  his  valet. 
What  a  heavenly  mind  he  must  have!  I — 

And  the  block  dissolved  and  the  motor  moved. 


CHAPTER    IV 

THE  windows  were  all  wide  open,  and  a  hot  breeze 
of  July,  strong  enough  almost  to  be  called  a  wind, 
and  laden  with  the  scents  of  summer  and  the  hum  of 
bees,  poured  boisterously  into  the  room,  stirring  the 
papers  on  the  table  and  ruffling  the  grayish  wiry  hair 
of  the  Writer.  But  this  invasion  of  the  wind  was  clearly 
a  thing  often  experienced,  and,  though  apparently 
welcomed,  suitably  guarded  against,  for  the  copious 
papers  that  fluttered  and  rustled  so  busily  to  its  touch 
were  made  secure  from  disarrangement  by  stones  and 
various  small  fragments  that  were  placed  on  top  of  their 
orderly  heaps  in  order  to  prevent  their  taking  flight. 
Thus,  at  the  right  hand  of  the  writer,  on  a  little  shelf 
of  these  flutterers  bound  together  by  an  elastic  band  and 
neatly  docketed  "Parish  Accounts,"  there  stood  a  small 
piece  of  basaltic  rock,  with  a  paper  label  gummed  to  it, 
lettered  in  minute  old  English  type,  "Ye  Sea  of  Galilee, 
1902."  "Ye  Dead  Sea,  1902,"  a  softer  piece  of  pumice- 
stone,  prevented  "Household  Accounts  (Stables)"  from 
sowing  themselves  over  the  room;  while  a  larger  slab 
of  white  marble — lay-brother,  so  to  speak,  to  the  first 
two,  and  labelled  "Acropolis,  1902  "  in  Greek  characters 
— kept  the  very  small  packet  of  "Letters  unanswered" 
in  place;  and  a  fragment,  with  its  ticket  "St.  Peter's, 
Rome,"  not  stating,  however,  from  what  part  of  the 
church  it  had  been  pilfered,  kept  Barr's  last  list  of 
"Seeds  for  the  Flower  Garden"  from  going  there.  Bits 
of  Jerusalem  and  Nazareth  were  similarly  useful. 

The  room  was  large,  square,  and  commodious;    lived 

69 


70  SHEAVES 

in,  as  was  evident  from  a  first  glance,  by  some  one  "who 
knew  what  he  wanted  in  his  study,  and  put  all  things 
in  their  places;  while  a  glance  at  his  rather  keen  and 
severe  face  might  suggest  that  he  had  a  slight  tendency 
to  put  people  in  their  places  also.  There  was  nothing 
fortuitous  or  haphazard  about  his  arrangements;  one 
felt  instinctively  that  the  owner  kept  about  him  only 
such  things  as  were  in  constant  use,  as,  for  instance, 
Barr's  catalogue  of  seeds  or  that  formed  part  of  the  con- 
stant background  of  his  mind,  under  which  head  we 
may  class  a  terra-cotta  reproduction  of  Michael  Angelo's 
Moses,  that  stood  on  the  top  of  a  revolving  bookcase 
in  the  window,  and  a  framed  map  of  the  Roman  Forum 
(1904),  with  the  latest  excavations  outlined  in  red. 
Bookshelves  took  up  the  bulk  of  the  wall-space,  which 
was  otherwise  decorated  with  prints  of  a  Biblical  char- 
acter. The  floor  was  covered  with  red  carpet,  cut  up 
by  black  lines  into  lozenge-shaped  squares,  in  the  centre 
of  each  of  which  was  a  fleur-de-lis,  and  it,  like  the  prints 
and  the  weights  that  kept  papers  in  their  places,  had  a 
serious  and  slightly  ecclesiastical  suggestion  about  it 
But  just  as  nobody  in  this  world  is  entirely  cut  out  of 
one  piece,  but  is,  to  some  extent,  at  any  rate,  of  the 
nature  of  patchwork,  so  too  this  room  reflected  a  few 
slightly  lighter  characteristics.  A  couple  of  golf  balls, 
for  instance,  stood  on  the  chimney-piece  just  below 
the  Sistine  Madonna,  bearing  the  marks  of  strenuous 
if  slightly  misdirected  usage,  and  in  the  centre  of  it  was 
a  pipe-rack,  with -half  a  dozen  well-coloured  companions 
of  the  mouth  in  it.  Here  again  ecclesiasticism  a  little 
reasserted  itself,  for  the  rack  was  of  fumed  oak,  carved 
in  a  debased  Gothic  manner  to  represent  a  church  win- 
dow. A  very  bulky  and  much-wadded  sofa,  of  the  type 
inexplicably  known  as  "Chesterfield,"  denoted  that 


SHEAVES  71 

there  were  moments  in  which  the  flesh  might  be  tired 
if  not  Weak,  while  even  there  the  eye — unless  closed — 
would,  wherever  it  looked,  be  braced  by  the  contem- 
plation of  mottoes  printed  in  large  and  very  legible 
type.  They  were  all  most  suitable,  and  a  baby  in  arms 
could  have  seen  their  applicability.  Thus  on  the  jamb 
of  each  of  the  bookcases  was  a  printed  scroll,  "  Much  have 
I  travelled  in  the  realms  of  gold,"  while  on  the  pipe-rack, 
humorously  enough,  though  perhaps  slightly  incongru- 
ously, since  it  crossed  the  sill  of  the  Gothic  church 
window,  was  written  the  quaintly  altered  quotation, 
"The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awakened  birdseye  ";  a  calendar 
on  the  table  was  somewhat  more  prosaically  inscribed 
" Pereunt  et  imputantur,"  and  also  "Days  and  moments 
quickly  flying";  and  across  the  gold  frame  of  the  Sistine 
Madonna — again  making  up  in  suitability  what  it 
lacked  in  ingenuity — was  printed  "Gloria  in  Excelsis." 
A  slightly  wider  flight  of  fancy,  however,  Was  exhibited 
on  the  varnished  wooden  rim  of  the  Writing-table  itself, 
for  here,  in  three-inch  letters,  was  carved,  "My  tongue 
is  the  pen  of  a  ready  writer." 

At  this  moment  the  truth  and  literal  applicability 
of  the  text  was  not  quite  being  fulfilled.  Leaving  his 
tongue  out  of  the  question,  the  Writer  was  ready  and  his 
pen  was  ready,  but  the  pen  Was  poised,  and  the  writer 
was  not  writing.  He  had,  in  fact,  got  to  the  last  para- 
graph of  the  address  he  was  going  to  give  at  the  Manning- 
ton  Literary  and  Scientific  Club,  or,  as  Canon  Alington 
playfully  called  it,  "The  Literific,"  on  Tuesday  evening 
next,  on  the  very  suggestive  arid  interesting  subject 
"The  True  Test  of  Literary  and  Artistic  Immortality." 
And  the  last  paragraph  he  always  held  Was  the  most 
important  of  all,  for  it  was  like  the  last  Well-directed 
hammer-blow  that  drives  a  nail-head  flush  with  the 


72  SHEAVES 

board  into  which  it  has  been  tapped.  In  fact,  several 
minutes  before  he  had  written  on  his  blotting-paper  in 
dotted  lines,  "C'est  le  dernier  pas  qui  coute,"  and  had 
determined  to  have  it  put  more  permanently  on  to  the 
inside  margin  of  his  blotting-book,  so  that  it  should 
always  be  before  him  when  he  was  engaged  in  literary 
composition.  He  wanted  a  sounding  conclusion,  a 
last  well-directed  blow,  and  he  sat  there  some  five  min- 
utes without  writing.  Then  he  gave  a  little  shake  to  his 
stylographic  pen,  and  wrote: 

"We  may,  then,  consider  it  proved — though  such  a  conclusion 
does  not  really  need  proof,  since  it  is  its  own  evidence — that  the 
immortal  in  art  and  letters  is  always  and  for  everyone  identical 
with  the  religious.  Insofar" — he  wrote  it  thus — "as  art,  be  it 
poetry,  or  fiction  even,  or  painting,  or  sculpture,  arouses  religious 
feelings  in  the  observer,  that  work  is,  as  we  have  shown — and, 
indeed,  as  it  shows  itself — immortal  in  proportion  to  the  depth 
and  reality  of  the  religious  feeling  it  arouses." 

Canon  Alington  paused  a  moment,  wondering  whether, 
strictly  speaking,  a  thing  could  be  proportionately 
immortal.  But  since  the  whole  phrase  expressed  what 
he  meant,  he  let  it  stand. 

"That  is  why  we  are  right  in  agreeing  that  the  Paradise  Lost 
is  indescribably  nobler  and  finer  than  even  the  'mighty-mouthed 
music'  of  Shakespeare  ;  that  is  why  we  unhesitatingly  can  affirm 
that  the  glorious  Sir  Galahad  and  St.  Agnes  of  the  late  Poet 
Laureate,  why  even  the  terrible  '  Rake's  Progress  '  of  Hogarth, 
since  it  rouses  our  religious  sense  by  the  horror  with  which  we 
contemplate  the  result  of  sin,  will  continue  to  be  fixed  stars  in 
the  heaven  of  human  achievement  and  aspiration  for  a?ons 
and  aeons  after  the  corrupt  sentimentality  of  Mr.  Swinburne  and 
the  degraded  ideals  of  Wagner's  G  otter  dammerung -" 

Canon  Alington  paused  for  a  moment  again,  for  he  was 
not  quite  certain  how  this  last  very  difficult  word  was 
spelled,  being,  though  a  scholar  of  dead  languages,  not 


SHEAVES  73 

so  perfectly  acquainted  with  the  living.  But  a  brief 
visit  to  the  realms  of  gold,  where  he  at  once  put  his  hand 
on  a  small  German  dictionary,  relieved  him  from  any 
anxiety  on  this  score;  there  Were  two  "m's,"  as  he  had 
thought.  The  fact  that  he  had  never  seen  the  "Ring" 
did  not  prevent  him  from  making  this  trenchant  pro- 
nouncement on  its  ideals,  for  he  had  glanced  not  so  long 
ago  at  a  translation  of  it,  which  his  brother-in-law,  Hugh 
Grainger,  had  left  in  the  house,  which  was  more  than 
enough  to  make  him  certain  that  he  was  not  overstating 
the  case,  since,  most  unfortunately,  he  had  opened  it  at 
that  passage  in  the  Valkyrie  where  Wotan,  father  of 
gods  and  men,  enunciates  such  remarkable  views  on  the 
subject  of  marriage. 

But  before  returning  to  his  table  he  took  a  pipe  down 
from  the  Gothic  window  rack  (it  was  by  reason  of  its 
shape  that  he  had  chosen  it  from  among  twenty  others), 
filled  it,  and  lit  it.  Then  he  continued: 
"have  been  consigned  to  the  limbo  of  mere  technical  skill  and 
mere  jingle  of  metre  and  melody  out  of  which  they  came." 

He  inhaled  a  long  breath  of  tobacco-smoke.  Even 
if  the  sentence  about  Hogarth's  "Rake's  Progress"  was 
a  little  "broad"  for  the  Mannington  "Literific,"  this 
uncompromising  condemnation  of  Wagner  and  Swin- 
burne would  show  that,  though  he  might  be  broad,  he 
was  also  firm.  The  sentence  Was  Well-balanced  too, 
the  last  hammer-taps  were  descending  straight,  and 
before  proceeding  he  drew  once  or  twice  more  at  his 
pipe,  for  tobacco  (he  was  afraid  this  was  a  weakness  of 
the  flesh,  and  meant  to  conquer  it  some  day)  always 
seemed  to  him  to  clarify  his  thought  and  aid  his  sense 
of  literary  composition.  It  was  for  this  reason  that, 
though  he  had  tried  giving  up  the  use  of  it  during  last 
Lent,  he  had  taken  to  it  again  after  the  third  Sunday 


74  SHEAVES 

in  that  season,  since  he  had  thought,  and  his  wife  agreed 
with  him,  that  his  sermons  suffered.  This  reason, 
though  of  the  sort  which  the  cynical  tend  to  distrust, 
was  indeed  perfectly  honest  and  genuine,  and  had  not 
he  thought  that  his  sermons  lost  impressiveness,  or  had 
not  Agnes  shared  his  fear,  he  would  have  scorned  to 
pamper  the  flesh  in  this  manner;  but  since  they  did,  it 
was  a  misdirected  effort  of  asceticism  to  continue  this 
particular  form  of  abstinence.  So  instead  he  gave 
up  for  the  remaining  three  weeks  of  Lent  putting  sugar 
in  his  tea,  and  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  disliked  this 
intensely — though,  it  is  true,  not  quite  so  much  as  the 
abandonment  of  tobacco — he  was  quite  firm  about  it, 
since  nothing  except  a  carnal  appetite  suffered. 

Then,  with  the  added  insoiration  of  tobacco,  he  finished 
his  peroration: 

"Moreover,  the  sense  of  beauty  is  purely  a  function  of  the  im- 
agination, and  it  is  therefore  our  duty  so  to  train  and  vivify  it 
that  it  perceives  even  through  roughness  and  want  of  skill  in  the 
artist's  execution,  nay,  even  through  superficial  plainness  or 
ugliness  that  quality  of  high  and  true  beauty  which  alone  is 
worth  our  attention  and  reverent  admiration,  and  is,  as  we  have 
said,  identical  with  religious  feeling.  So,  just  as  in  a  plain  face 
we  ought  to  and  can  discern  the  beauty  of  the  spirit  within,  so  in 
literature  and  in  all  art  it  is  in  the  moral  significance  of  book  or 
picture  or  statue  that  we  must  seek  true  beauty,  which  alone  is 
the  immortal  element.  Then  to  us  the  face  of  our  fellow-men 
will  be  beautiful  because  we  see  there  the  love  and  faith  of  the 
spirit  that  animates  them;  a  book  will  be  beautiful  because  it 
tells  us  of  Christian  qualities  and  points  Christian  lessons,  and 
with  reverence  and  awe  we  shall  close  the  volume  or  turn  away 
from  the  picture,  or  even  statue,  that  we  have  contemplated, 
feeling  that  dimly  but  surely  we  have  caught  a  glimpse,  a  fore- 
shadowing of  the  truly  immortal,  a  ray  from  the  dawn  of  the 
everlasting  day." 

"Everlasting  day,"  said  Canon  Alington  aloud,  and 


SHEAVES  75 

repeated  it  again  rather  more  sonorously.  That  Was 
the  last  hammer- tap,  and  he  drew  a  line  across  the  paper, 
and  dated  it. 

Canon  Alington's  handwriting  was  neat  to  the  point 
of  exquisiteness,  and  since  he  was  already  quite  certain 
of  the  correctness  of  his  premises  and  the  justice  of  his 
conclusions,  it  was  but  a  short  work  to  run  through  the 
finished  paper  again  with  an  eye  for  punctuation  and  a 
detective's  keenness  for  any  possible  slips  of  grammar, 
for  his  horror  of  closed  windows  Was  outrivalled  by  his 
dread  of  split  innifitives.  His  brown,  lean  face,  with 
its  thick  crop  of  hair  just  beginning  to  turn  gray,  that 
rose  upright  in  wiry  fashion  from  his  forehead,  pointed 
to  great  physical  vigour,  while  the  fact  that  on  this 
broiling  day  he  had  sat  down  directly  after  lunch  and 
worked  for  more  than  three  hours  without  rising  from 
his  chair,  except  at  the  end  of  his  business  to  get  that 
"earliest  pipe  of  half-awakened  birdseye,"  was  sufficient 
indication  that  no  mental  weakness  belied  his  appearance 
of  strong  vitality.  He  had  written  this  paper,  which 
would  take  him  a  full  hour  to  read  at  the  "Literific," 
without  notes  of  any  kind,  and  without  (as  he  found 
when  he  read  it  over)  any  of  what  he  habitually  called 
vain  repetition,  or  (another  critical  term  of  his)  "con- 
fused noises  within."  All  he  had  meant  to  say  he 
had  said,  and,  a  rarer  merit,  he  had  said  absolutely 
nothing  that  he  did  not  mean  to  say.  The  whole  paper 
wave  as  accurate  a  reflection  of  that  which  was  in  his 
mind  as  the  best  looking-glass. 

He  placed  his  sheets  when  he  had  finished  their  revis- 
ion under  a  piece  of  labelled  Sinaitic  rock  (1902),  and 
then  granted  himself  a  few  minutes'  leisure  as  he  smoked 
the  remainder  of  the  pipe  which  had  assisted  him  toward 
the  composition  of  that  uncompromising  last  paragraph. 


76  SHEAVES 

Though  he  had  been  busily  engaged  all  day,  first  in 
parish  business  and  then  in  this  "literific"  effort,  he 
was  not  at  all  tired,  and  indeed  the  rest  of  the  hours  till 
bedtime  were  not  without  further  duties.  He  had  at 
present  had  no  exercise  all  day,  though  he  considered 
exercise  to  be  as  distinct  a  duty  as  any  other,  since  the 
body  reacts  on  the  mind,  and  he  purposed  before  dinner 
to  do  a  little  late  seeding  in  the  garden,  and  finish  up 
very  likely  with  half  an  hour  with  the  heavy  roller  on 
the  lawn.  Then,  too,  he  had  long  made  it  strictly 
incumbent  upon  himself  to  do  an  hour's  reading  every 
day;  not  of  the  kind  that  was  necessarily  congenial 
to  him,  but  reading  which  he  felt  it  his  duty  to  do  in 
order  to  keep  abreast  of  the  times.  Had  he  been  a  selfish, 
pleasure-loving  person,  he  would  certainly  from  prefer- 
ence have  devoted  this  hour  to  some  well-thumbed 
favourite,  such  as  "Paradise  Lost,"  or  Miss  Corelli's 
wonderful  "Romance  of  Two  Worlds."  But  to  be 
abreast  with  the  times  he  always  made  a  point  of  keeping 
on  hand  some  novel  dealing  with  affairs  strictly  of  the 
present  and  its  fashionable  foibles  and  frailties.  He 
learned  from  this  how  frivolous  and  unearnest  London 
society  was  becoming,  and  could  thus  warn  Mannington 
both  by  example  and  precept  against  the  insidious 
infection.  Mannington,  indeed,  especially  in  the  sum- 
mer months,  he  was  afraid,  was  not  altogether  outside 
the  danger-zone,  and  perhaps  spent  more  time  over 
garden-parties,  strawberries,  and  scandal  than  was  right. 
Not  that  Canon  Alington  was  sour  or  Puritanical,  or 
at  all  underrated  the  value  of  'timely  social  gaieties; 
but  to  the  unwary  these  things  might  tend  to  become 
an  end  in  themselves,  or,  more  dangerous  yet,  degenerate 
into  that  continuous  and  expensive  round  of  pure 
pleasure ,  week  in  and  week  out,  that  seemed  to  characterise 


SHEAVES  77 

the  season  in  London.  But  the  clergy  generally,  he  thought, 
did  not  make  the  most  of  their  opportunities  of  usefulness 
by  not  keeping  abreast  of  the  times,  and  Warning  their 
flocks  of  the  dangers  that  lurked  beneath  too  great  an 
indulgence  of  innocent  and,  indeed,  helpful  socialities, 
and  also  by  too  sad  an  aspect  at  tea-parties,  or  total 
abstention  from  them,  which  gave  the  impression  that 
they  thought  such  things  wrong.  Canon  Alington  never 
fell  into  these  mistakes,  and  his  wife's  fortnightly  little 
dinners,  which  were  distinguished  for  their  plain  yet 
excellent  cooking,  the  soundness  of  the  wines  (though 
he  was  himself  a  teetotaller),  and  the  sober  strenuousness 
of  the  conversation,  from  which  indeed  scarcely  any 
topic  was  barred,  were  quite  a  feature  in  Mannington 
society.  The  range  of  his  guests,  too,  Was  extremely 
broad;  one  was  liable  to  meet  there  "the  military," 
for  Mannington  was  a  garrison  town;  the  "Close,"  for 
it  was  a  cathedral  one;  the  "county"  (for  his  wife  was 
a  Grainger  and  quite  distinctly  of  the  county),  and 
many  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  detached  houses  with 
gardens  that  stretched  their  feelers  into  the  country, 
such  as  The  Firs,  The  Cedars,  Apsley  House,  The 
Engadine,  Holyrood,  Holland  House,  and  heaps  of 
manors  and  granges.  Nor  was  there  any  hint  of  religious 
disability  in  these  parties;  dissenting  town  councillors 
were  entertained  there,  and  Canon  Alington  never 
showed  a  shade  of  abated  cordiality  in  his  welcome  of 
them,  despite  the  great  gulf  that  divided  him  from  them. 
Indeed,  there  was  a  reputed  atheist  among  his  regular 
guests,  who  never  went  to  any  sort  of  church  at  all, 
and  though  there  was  wonder  in  the  Canon's  flock  when 
first  it  Was  known  that  Mr.  Frawley  had  dined  there 
(this,  by  the  way,  was  common  knowledge  long  before 
lunch- time  next  day),  this  broadness  perhaps  set  Canon 


78  SHEAVES 

Alington  on  a  higher  pinnacle  than  ever.  The  text 
"all  things  to  all  men"  was  felt  to  be  at  last  rightly 
understood.  He  also  dined  at  the  Frawleys's,  and  had 
been  asked  to  say  grace,  and  did  so.  So  Mr.  Frawley, 
in  his  groping,  purblind  way,  was  broad,  too. 

To-night,  too,  the  duties  of  the  host  would  be  his  also, 
for  his  wife's  brother,  Hugh  Grainger,  was  coming  to 
stop  with  them  for  a  week-end  of  Friday  till  Tuesday, 
and  though  it  cannot  be  said,  without  gross  misuse  of 
language,  that  he  approved  of  Hugh,  he  could  not  help 
being  somewhat  stimulated  by  him,  and  occasionally 
in  his  quick,  youthful  way  Hugh  made  remarks  that  the 
more  mature  and  cultivated  mind  of  Canon  Alington 
found  very  suggestive.  It  was  he,  for  instance,  who 
had  said  that  the  "Rake's  Progress"  was  unsuitable  to 
put  up  in  a  drawing-room  because  it  was  so  intensely 
and  violently  moral;  you  might  as  well  have  gramo- 
phones shouting  the  Ten  Commandments  all  day  on  a 
side-table;  and  though  this  remark  was,  of  course, 
exaggerated  and  implied  a  certain  flippancy  that  the 
Canon  did  not  find  at  all  to  his  taste,  this  had  not  pre- 
vented him  from  using  the  germ  of  truth  which  it  con- 
tained in  his  recently-written  paper  for  the  "Literific." 
Hugh  also,  in  point  of  fact,  had  been  the  author  of  the 
little  conceit  about  the  earliest  pipe,  though  it  is  only 
just  to  him  to  say  that  he  had  no  idea  this  was  to  be 
or  had  been  solemnly  inscribed  on  the  sill  of  the  Gothic 
window  of  a  pipe-rack.  Yet  Canon  Alington  had  been 
more  than  half  author  of  it,  for  he  had  quoted  the  original 
line  of  Tennyson  to  Hugh,  who  had  merely  said: 
"Birdseye!  Put  it  on  your  pipe-rack." 
Indeed,  Hugh  had  not  known  where  the  original 
quotation  came  from,  for  with  all  his  superficial  quick- 
ness he  seemed  to  his  brother-in-law  to  have  very  little 


SHEAVES  79 

real  knowledge,  and  the  Canon  often  told  him  that  what 
he  needed  was  "deepening." 

His  meditation  over  this  half-pipe  of  tobacco  lasted 
but  a  few  minutes,  for  it  was  alien  to  his  native  activity 
of  mind  to  indulge  in  vague  reflections  of  any  kind, 
and  soon  he  took  up  the  morning  paper  of  the  day,  which, 
so  busy  had  he  been,  he  had  not  yet  had  time  to  look  at. 
Outside  he  heard  the  crunch  of  the  gravel  of  what  is 
called  the  "carriage-sweep,"  but  it  was  probably  not 
Hugh,  who  usually  arrived  only  just  before  dinner- 
time ;  and  if  it  was  a  caller,  his  wife  Was  out,  and  he  him- 
self was  never  disturbed  in  his  study  for  any  chance 
visitor.  Indeed,  on  the  outside  door  of  it  he  had  play- 
fully put  up  the  motto,  "Abandon  hope  all  ye  who 
enter  here,"  and  the  explanation  of  it  often  formed  a 
pleasant  little  topic  at  his  dinner-parties,  when  he  and 
his  men-guests  crossed  the  hall  to  join  the  rest  of  the 
company  in  the  drawing-room. 

So  he  turned  over  the  pages  of  his  paper,  secure  from 
interruption.  In  the  general  way,  there  was  not  much 
to  detain  him,  but  in  "London  Day  by  Day"  a  short 
paragraph  concerning  the  huge  success  of  this  new  play, 
"Gambits,"  arrested  him,  and  he  read  it  with  some 
distress,  remembering  the  original  criticism  of  the  drama 
that  had  appeared  in  the  same  paper,  which  had  shown 
him  so  clearly  that  this  play  Was  typical  of  all  those 
tendencies  of  the  day  which  seemed  to  him  so  danger- 
ous. For — such  was  the  outline  of  the  plot — a  girl  had 
been  married  young,  far  too  young,  in  fact,  to  a  man 
much  older  than  herself,  who,  as  Canon  Alington  easily 
saw,  was  a  person  of  extreme  feebleness  and  indecision 
of  mind.  Subsequently  she  fell  in  love  with  a  young 
cousin  of  her  husband  who  lived  with  them,  and  though 
there  was  no  suggestion  of  infidelity  on  her  part,  yet  it 


8o  SHEAVES 

was  clear  that  the  author's  intention  (one  Andrew  Robb, 
from  the  solid  sound  of  which  something  better  might 
have  been  expected)  was  that  pity  and  sympathy  should 
be  extended  to  them  both.  It  was  only  by  degrees 
that  the  indecisive  husband  saw  and  realised  this  miser- 
able state  of  affairs,  and,  after  wretched  vacillations, 
committed  suicide.  That,  to  put  it  baldly  (and  Canon 
Alington  always  put  baldly  affairs  with  which  he  felt 
no  sympathy),  was  the  skeleton  of  the  play  of  which  the 
Daily  Telegraph  had  so  warm  and  appreciative  a  critique. 
And  now  it  appeared  that  London  was  going  mad  over 
the  play,  and  pined  to  know  who  Andrew  Robb  was. 
But  the  Canon's  opinion  of  London  had  always  been 
low.  The  very  fact,  too,  that  the  play  itself  was  said  to 
be  beautifully  written,  to  be  instinct  with  humanity 
and  true  pathos,  made  it  all  the  more  dangerous.  In 
no  single  point  were  any  of  the  tests  of  literary  and 
artistic  immortality,  which  he  had  laid  down  so  con- 
vincingly in  his  paper  of  this  afternoon,  satisfied.  A 
husband  committed  suicide  because  his  wife  had  weakly 
allowed  herself  to  fall  in  love  with  somebody  else.  There 
could  not  possibly  be  any  germ  of  immortality  in  this 
hodge-podge  of  weakness  and  wickedness.  Yet  in  the 
interval  it  looked  as  if  it  was  going  to  live  long  and 
lustily.  And  it  was  called  human!  Frail  and  feeble 
as  Canon  Alington  knew  humanity,  alas,  to  be,  he  did 
not  think  of  it  so  badly  as  that! 

At  this  point,  however,  his  musings,  set  up  again 
by  that  paragraph,  were  interrupted,  for  the  carriage, 
the  departing  wheels  of  which  had  just  again  crunched 
the  gravel,  contained  not  callers,  but  Hugh,  who  had 
caught  an  earlier  train.  He  crossed  the  grass  to  below 
the  window  of  the  study,  put  his  hand  on  to  the  sill, 
and  vaulted  on  to  it,  upsetting  a  small  saucer  of 


SHEAVES  8 1 

seeds  which  had  been  put  there  to  soak  before  being 
planted. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  sorry!"  he  said.  "I'm  afraid  I've  upset 
something.  How  are  you,  Dick?" 

Dick,  it  must  be  confessed,  had  constantly  to  make 
little  efforts  of  self-control  when  Hugh  Was  in  the  house. 
He  made  them  quite  willingly,  and  Was  ashamed  to 
think  that  they  Were  efforts.  He  made  one  now. 

"Ah,  there  you  are,  Hugh!  "  he  said  cordially.  "  How 
are  you?  What  burglarious  entry!  And  what's  the 
damage?" 

"I  seem  to  have  upset  some  little  beans,"  said  Hugh. 
"  I  sat  down  on  half  the  saucer,  so  the  rest  tipped  up." 

"  Better  than  that  you  should  tip  up,"  said  his  brother- 
in-law.  "It  was  only  some  of  those  new  lupins  I  Was 
going  to  sow.  All  gone  on  the  lawn,  have  they?  It  is 
of  no  consequence.  Luckily  I  have  some  more,  and  I 
will  put  them  to  soak  and  sow  them  to-morrow  instead. 
'That  shall  be  to-morrow,  not  to-night.'  Rather  neat, 
eh?  Browning." 

Hugh  gingerly  but  successfully  accomplished  the  task 
of  getting  through  the  window  into  the  room.  Some- 
how, if  his  brother-in-law  had  said,  "You  clumsy  brute, 
how  beastly  careless  you  are!"  he  would  have  felt  less 
blamed  than  being  not  blamed  at  all  in  this  Christian 
manner. 

"And  how's  Agnes?"  he  said,  shaking  hands. 

"Very  well,  and  as  busy  as  we  all  are  down  here.  She 
said  she  would  very  likely  be  late  for  tea,  and  told  us 
not  to  wait." 

"I  hope  I  haven't  interrupted  you  at — at  anything," 
said  Hugh,  unable  for  the  moment  to  remember  the 
names  of  things  that  made  the  Canon  so  busy. 

"  Not  in  the  least.     I  had  finished  my  paper,  and 


82  SHEAVES 

perhaps  you  have  saved  me  from  the  fate  of  idle  hands. 
Shall  we  go  out  and  have  tea  in  the  garden?  It  is  cooler, 
I  think,  out  of  doors." 

"And  there  seems  to  be  less  of  a  gale  out  of  doors 
than  in  your  study,"  remarked  Hugh.  "  But  you  always 
like  living  in  a  Temple  of  the  Winds." 

The  Canon  smiled  approvingly;  anything  suggestive 
of  a  classical  allusion  always  pleased  him,  though  exactly 
how  he  would  have  reconciled  his  love  for  the  classics 
with  the  view  he  had  so  pointedly  expressed  to-day  that 
all  art  to  be  immortal  must  be  religious  would  perhaps 
have  puzzled  him.  But  he  had  arrived  at  an  age  and 
a  dignity  which  put  him  generally  beyond  the  risk  of 
being  asked  awkward  questions.  Hugh,  however,  some- 
times asked  things  which  his  brother-in-law  felt  sure 
he  would  understand  when  he  was  older,  and  they  occas- 
ionally had  what  the  Canon  called  "great  arguments" 
together. 

"Ha!  Temple  of  the  Winds!"  he  said.  "Hall  of 
^Eolus!  ^olian  hall.  I'll  call  the  study  ^Eolian  Hall. 
Capital!  I'm  naming — or,  rather,  Agnes  and  I  are  naming 
all  the  rooms.  It  gives  a  house  so  much  more  character." 

They  strolled  out  into  the  hall. 

"Agnes  thought  of  an  excellent  name  to  put  on  the 
baize  door  of  the  passage  to  the  servants'  room,"  he 
continued.  "She  suggested — in  fact,  she  invented — the 
word  'Abigailia,'  the  country  of  the  maid-servants,  you 
see.  Abigaildom  was  her  first  suggestion,  but  I  pro- 
posed Abigailia  on  the  analogy  of  Philistia.  The  whole 
idea,  though,  was  hers.  Come  through  the  dining-room; 
we  shall  go  out  without  being  seen  from  the  front  if 
anybody  calls.  And  they  will  truthfully  say  that  we 
are  all  out." 

They   passed   accordingly    through   the   dining-room, 


SHEAVES  83 

where  the  blinds  were  down  to  keep  out  the  afternoon 
sun,  and  the  table-cloth  already  laid  for  dinner  glim- 
mered whitely  in  the  dusk.  It  was  not,  however,  so 
dark  that  Hugh  could  not  read  over  the  chimney-piece, 
in  Roman  characters,  "They  sat  down  to  eat  and  drink," 
while  over  the  door  into  the  garden  was  the  appropriate 
conclusion,  "And  rose  up  to  play." 

"And  you  have  been  in  London  all  these  last  three 
months,  have  you  not? "  he  went  on.  "  Busy,  I  suppose, 
or  at  any  rate  occupied?  Agnes  was  very  neat  on  the 
subject  the  other  day.  She  said,  'In  town  they  seem 
to  make  a  business  of  pleasure,  whereas  here  I  am  sure 
We  make  a  pleasure  of  business.'  Like  all  true  wit,  too, 
it  contains  a  profound  truth." 

This  true  wit,  however,  did  not  inspire  Hugh  with 
any  fresh  thoughts  on  the  subject,  and  he  changed  the 
subject  with  some  abruptness. 

"  Oh,  yes,  one  is  always  occupied  in  London!  "  he  said. 
"  By  the  Way,  do  you  know  if  Mrs.  Allbutt  is  down  here? 
You  know  her,  don't  you?  Which  is  her  house ?  I  have 
not  been  down  since  she  moved  here." 

Dick  Alington's  face  grew  slightly  reserved. 

"Yes,  she  has  taken  Friars  Grange,"  he  said;  "the 
house  by  the  river.  She  has,  however,  called  it  Chalkpits, 
which  she  tells  me  is  its  real  name  on  the  old  leases.  A 
pity,  I  think,  rather.  Of  course,  I  should  be  the  last 
to  decry  the  spirit  of  antiquarian  exactitude,  but  it  is 
possible  to  lose  the  sense  of  romance  in  what  is  after  all 
mere  pedantry." 

"Oh,  I  think  I  feel  with  her!"  said  Hugh.  "Every 
retired  grocer  lives  in  a  grange." 

But  the  slight  reserve  that  had  come  over  the  Canon 
at  the  mention  of  Mrs.  Allbutt  Was  not  due  to  pedantry. 
The  real  reason  appeared  now. 


84  SHEAVES 

"She  Was  here,  anyhow,  last  Sunday,"  he  said, 
"because  she  asked  Agnes  and  me  to  dine  with  her  in 
the  evening.  We  both  thought  it  a  very  odd  thing  to 
do.  We  declined,  of  course." 

"Why?"  asked  Hugh  rather  thoughtlessly.  Then, 
so  he  flattered  himself,  he  remembered.  "Oh,  I  see, 
evening  church!  "  he  said. 

His  brother-in-law  again  stiffened  slightly,  but  replied 
with  the  most  scrupulous  honest)7. 

"No,  We  should  have  had  time  to  go  after  church," 
he  said,  "had  we  wished.  Indeed,  Agnes  guessed  that 
the  dinner  was  at  the  unusually  late  hour  of  half-past 
eight  to  enable  us  to  do  so.  But  it  is  against  our 
principles  to  dine  out  Sunday." 

Canon  Alington,  who  seldom  moved  about  his  garden 
without  a  spud  in  his  hand,  neatly  extracted  a  dandelion 
from  the  short  velvet  of  the  lawn,  and  relaxed  a  little. 

"Of  course,  I  do  not  say  that  it  is  morally  wrong  to 
dine  out  on  Sunday,"  he  said,  "because  that  would  be 
a  narrow  view  of  which,  I  trust,  I  should  not  be  guilty. 
It  is,  of  course,  also  quite  possible  that  as  Mrs.  Allbutt 
has  only  been  here  so  short  a  time  she  did  not  know  our 
views  on  the  subject,  for  I  am  aware  that  many  of  the 
clergy  do  not  agree  with  me  in  my  idea  of  the  observance 
of  Sunday.  But  let  that  pass.  I  hope  Mrs.  Allbutt 
will  be  an  acquisition  to  the  parish." 

"She  would  be  an  acquisition  to  any  parish,"  said 
Hugh.  "She  is  quite  entirely  charming.  During  the 
last  fortnight  I  have  often  met  her  at  Lady  Rye's." 

Canon  Alington  warmed  to  this. 

"Ah,  there  is  an  admirable  woman!"  he  said.  "She 
has  a  truly  serious  sense  of  the  responsibility  which 
wealth  and  position  give.  If  Mrs.  Allbutt  is  like  her, 
We  are  indeed  fortunate.  And  certainly  Agnes  is 


SHEAVES  85 

favourably  impressed  with  her,  and  Agnes's  impressions 
are  not  often  erroneous.  She  has  teen  very  handsome 
in  the  way  of  subscriptions  already." 

"She  is  also  very  handsome  in  the  way  of  features," 
said  Hugh,  with  a  touch  of  flippancy. 

The  planting  of  the  lupin-seeds  which  Hugh  had  upset 
was  to  have  been  part  of  what  Canon  Alington  called 
the  horticultural  curriculum  for  the  evening,  and  since 
that  was  no  longer  possible,  gardening  operations  were 
deferred  in  toto  till  the  morrow,  and  the  two  walked  over 
to  the  adjoining  golf  links  to  play  a  short  round  before 
dinner.  As  he  had  often  done  before,  Canon  Alington, 
having  spun  a  coin  to  decide  who  should  drive  first, 
asked  Hugh  if  he  would  have  "capita  aut  caudce,"  and 
Hugh,  having  won,  had  the  bright  thought  of  replying 
" Habeo  honorem."  Dick,  however,  demurred  to  this 
as  being  an  improper  use  of  the  Latin  word  "honor," 
which  meant  not  "honour,"  but  "public  office." 

Agnes  Alington  Was  older  than  Hugh  by  several  years. 
She  had  married  young,  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  when  a 
girl's  character,  so  to  speak,  is  in  the  state  of  an  ingot  of 
red-hot  iron,  fresh  taken  from  the  furnace,  and  easily 
and  glowingly  to  be  fashioned  into  any  shape  that  her 
blacksmith  desires.  The  blacksmith  in  this  case  being 
Canon  Alington,  it  Was  not  difficult  to  forecast  that  in  a 
very  short  space  of  time  she  Would  be  hammered  into 
a  shape  on  which  the  author  had  stamped  his  own  very 
distinct  and  efficient  personality,  and  be,  so  to  speak, 
hall-marked  with  him.  This  formation  of  his  wife's 
mind,  a  task  which  Dick  had  definitely  set  himself  and 
earnestly  carried  out,  was  very  soon  accomplished, 
with  the  result,  as  might  have  been  expected,  that 
Agnes  became  extraordinarily  like  him.  This  too  had 
happened,  that  as  she  became  more  like  him  he  began 


86  SHEAVES 

to  admire  her  more  and  more  for  all  those  qualities 
which  tinder  his  tuition  sprang  up  like  rather  stiff 
flowers  in  her  character.  He  had  exactly  the  same 
qualities  himself,  but  in  his  busy  and  strenuous  life  he 
had  no  time  to  admire  them  in  himself,  nor  sufficient 
self-consciousness  to  think  about  them  at  all  except  in 
as  far  as  the  deeds  they  dictated  were  his  duty.  But 
somehow  when  he  saw  them  so  brilliant  and  vigorous 
in  his  wife,  the  ordinary  human  love,  under  direction  of 
which  he  had  wooed  and  won  her,  became  a  very  stead- 
fast and  solid  thing,  founded  (though  the  foundation 
had  been  added  afterward)  on  the  granite  of  imperish- 
able esteem  and  respect.  In  all  points,  indeed,  the 
welding  bore  the  trace  of  the  hammerer's  characteristics, 
and  in  a  quality  so  personal  and  essential,  one  would 
have  said,  as  that  of  humour  Agnes  now  completely 
resembled  her  husband,  though  at  the  time  of  her 
marriage  she  was  quite  capable,  like  her  brother,  of 
telling  fairy-tales  to  children  out  of  her  own  head.  But 
to-day  the  light  side  of  things  was  sufficiently  represented 
in  her  life  if  from  time  to  time  she  could  strike  out  some 
idea  akin  to  that  under  inspiration  of  which  she  had 
suggested  "Abigaildom"  for  the  baize  door  of  the  pas- 
sage leading  to  the  maidservants'  rooms.  She  had 
become  an  ideal  helpmeet  for  him  and  she  truly  and 
without  exaggeration  expressed  what  he  was  to  her  in 
a  pet  name  for  him,  which  was  Galahad,  again  often 
abbreviated  into  the  nom  de  foyer  of  Laddie.  Rarely, 
indeed  does  it  happen  that  two  people  are  so  thoroughly 
and  essentially  suited  to  each  other  as  these  were,  and 
in  all  the  difficulties  and  perplexities  no  less  than  in  all 
the  happiness  and  joys  of  their  excellent  and  admirable 
lives  they  were  truly  one.  And  the  seed  of  this  thor- 
oughly happy  marriage  was  set  in  their  two  children, 


SHEAVES  87 

who  had  neither  of  them  ever  given  their  parents  a 
single  moment  of  anxiety,  except  as  regards  their  eye-- 
sight, which  necessitated  their  both  wearing  spectacles. 
These  were  a  boy  and  girl,  now  aged  nine  and  eight 
respectively.  Their  names  were  Ambrose  and  Perpetua, 
the  calendar  saints  of  the  days  on  which  they  had 
been  born. 

Perpetua  on  the  occasion  of  Hugh's  visit  happened 
to  be  away  from  home,  staying  with  an  aunt  by  the 
seaside  for  a  week,  but  when  the  two  men  came  back 
from  their  golf  they  found  Ambrose  Walking  by  himself 
up  and  down  the  gravel  path  of  the  kitchen  garden,  and 
he  ran  to  meet  them.  Hugh,  though  in  general  fond 
of  children,  was  terrified  of  Ambrose  because  of  his 
stainless  character  and  his  consciousness  of  virtue. 

"How  are  you,  Uncle  Hugh?"  said  Ambrose  very 
properly.  "Mamma  told  me  you  were  coming  to-day, 
and  I  was  so  pleased! " 

"Why,  that's  awfully  jolly  of  you,"  said  Hugh. 
"And  where's  Perpetua?" 

"She  is  staying  with  Aunt  Susan.  I  made  a  calendar 
of  the  days  when  she  would  be  away,  and  I  cross  one  off 
every  evening.  Don't  I,  papa?" 

"Yes,  my  son.     Is  your  mother  in?" 

"Oh,  yes,  we  came  in  together  about  half  an  hour 
ago!  We  went  to  see  a  poor  woman  who  is  ill,  and  I 
took  her  some  strawberries.  They  were  my  own, 
from  my  own  garden.  I  carried  them  in  a  cabbage- 
leaf." 

"Strawberries?"  said  Hugh.  "How  delicious!  Let's 
go  and  eat  some.  I  haven't  had  any  strawberries  since 
— since  lunch." 

Ambrose's  face  gleamed  with  pleasure. 

"That  would  be  nice,"  he  said,  "but  those  were  my 


88  SHEAVES 

strawberry  ration  for  to-day.  My  ration  is  a  baker's 
dozen  of  strawberries,  which  is  thirteen,  you  know." 

Hugh's  face  fell. 

"I  see,"  he  said,  "I  suppose  I've  had  my  ration,  too. 
Besides,  I  expect  it's  time  for  me  to  dress  for  dinner." 

"Then  I  shall  come  in,  too.  I  come  down  to  dinner 
now,  Uncle  Hugh.  At  least,  I  sit  with  papa  and  mamma 
while  they  have  theirs,  until  it  strikes  eight." 

The  boy  ran  on  in  front  of  them,  leaving  his  father 
and  Hugh  behind. 

"The  two  children  are  devoted  to  each  other,"  said 
their  father.  "And  they  vie  with  each  other  in  kindly 
deeds.  The  boy  gave  all  his  strawberries  for  the  day 
to  the  sick  woman.  It  was  entirely  his  own  idea,  too; 
he  asked  me  if  he  might." 

"I  should  have  told  him  not  to  jaw,  but  eat  them 
himself,"  said  Hugh,  in  a  sudden  access  of  internal 
revolt. 

Canon  Alington  looked  at  him  a  moment  in  silence. 

"  I  fancy  it  is  time  for  us  to  dress,"  he  said  tactfully. 


CHAPTER  V 

MANNINGTON,  like  most  old-fashioned  English 
towns,  is  built  in  a  wood-sheltered  hollow,  and 
screened  from  the  inclemencies  of  northern  and  easterly 
winds  by  the  big  chalk  towns  of  Wiltshire.  Before  the 
days  of  railways  and  the  decentralisation  of  local  centres 
that  followed,  it  had  been  a  county  town  of  some 
importance,  but  situated  as  it  was  only  on  a  branch  line 
of  the  Great  Western,  the  mercantile  and  manufacturing 
life,  never  very  vigorous,  was  sucked  out  of  it  into 
Swindon,  and  for  the  last  fifty  years  or  more  it  had  been 
a  place  of  singular  sedateness  and  most  leisurely  life.  In 
olden  times  the  "county"  and  local  gentry  used  to  fore- 
gather there  in  considerable  numbers  for  Christmas 
festivities,  such  as  county  and  hunt  balls,  and  the  town  is 
full  of  charming  old  red-brick  residences,  now  for  the 
most  part  let  to  wealthy  and  retired  tradesfolk,  or  less 
wealthy  but  equally  retired  colonels  and  captains  of  the 
services,  who,  surrounded  by  their  wives  and  families, 
live  a  very  quiet  and  pleasant  existence,  warding  off  the 
gout  which  port  and  advancing  years  threaten  them  with 
by  golf  or  gentle  horse  exercise  on  the  downs.  To  the 
south  and  West  the  country  is  flat  and  open,  the  line  of 
downs  holding  the  town  itself  as  if  the  base  of  the  fingers 
of  some  huge  grass-clad  hand,  while  across  the  palm  of  it 
below,  following,  so  to  speak,  the  "line  of  heart,"  the 
Kennet  makes  a  loitering  half-circle  before  wandering 
on  again  through  its  low-lying  Water-meadows,  starred 
with  red  ragged-robin  and  the  burnished  gold  of  the 
marsh  marigolds,  to  join  the  Thames  at  Reading.  But 

89 


9o  SHEAVES 

though  the  vigour  and  stress  of  competitive  manufac- 
turing, as  has  been  said,  had  left  it,  it  still  grew  slowly, 
not  in  the  way  of  small  houses  inhabited  by  the  lower 
trading  class,  but  of  villas  for  those  who  had  finished 
their  trading,  and  it  was  now  nearly  joined  by  means 
of  such  an  artery  of  gentility  with  the  little  village  of 
St.  Olaf 's,  some  miles  distant  from  the  streets  of  Manning- 
ton  itself,  of  which  Canon  Alington  was  so  assiduous  a 
vicar.  The  church,  gray,  Norman,  and  of  wonderful 
quiet  dignity,  stood  with  the  vicarage  and  its  acre  or 
two  of  garden  on  the  furthest  edge  of  the  village  itself, 
and  from  there  the  Swindon  road,  which  had  curved 
downwards  from  the  hills  behind  Mannington  to  collect 
the  traffic  of  the  town,  began  to  climb  the  downs  again, 
shaking  off  the  houses  from  its  margin,  and,  after  passing 
a  couple  more  larger  residences,  screened  behind  trees 
of  fine  growth  from  the  dust  and  passage  of  carts,  started 
on  its  lonely  journey  to  the  next  village. 

It  was  in  the  last  of  these,  standing  on  a  plateau,  just 
above  the  water-meadows  of  the  Kennet,  that  Mrs. 
Allbutt  had  just  settled.  It  had  been  built  in  Jacobean 
times,  and  the  trees  which  surrounded  it,  planted  prob- 
ably at  the  same  date,  were  towers  of  leaf  and  spreading 
bough;  but  southward,  toward  the  river,  the  view  was 
open,  and  here  lay  the  lawns  and  flower  garden.  The 
kitchen  garden  was  at  the  back  of  the  house,  separated 
from  the  livelier  and  more  ornamental  part  by  a  huge 
boxhedge,  and  beyond  that  again  was  the  disused  chalk 
quarry  now  a  place  of  grassy  hollow  and  luxuriances 
of  straggling  bramble  bushes,  from  which  no  doubt  the 
old  name  of  Chalkpits,  so  unromantically  revived  again 
by  Mrs.  Allbutt,  was  derived.  Beyond  again  came  an 
acre  or  two  of  beech-wood  that  even  in  this  hot  mid- 
summer of  the  year  retained  something  of  the  freshness 


SHEAVES  91 

and  milky  green  of  spring,  and  a  wooden  fence  that 
shut  off  the  little  estate  from  the  down  and  the  road. 

Edith's  determination  to  settle  in  the  country  had, 
though  Peggy  had  tried  to  dissuade  her  from  it,  been 
made  with  perfect  deliberation  and  foresight.  She 
alone  knew  how  deeply  the  past  years  had  seared  and 
burned  her,  and  though,  as  she  had  told  Peggy,  she 
did  not  in  the  least  cease  to  expect  much  pleasure  from 
life  and  many  agreeable  days,  she  did  not  even  now, 
though  three  years  had  passed  since  her  torture  had 
ended,  feel  up  to  making  those  incessant  efforts,  to 
racing  with  the  rest,  that  were  so  essential  a  feature  in 
the  lives  of  those  she  would  have  lived  among  had  she 
chosen  to  go  to  London.  But  she  no  longer  felt  those 
vital  and  exquisite  anticipations  of  desires  for  happiness 
that  are  tke  distinguishing  characteristics  of  youth. 
Youth  for  her  in  that  sense,  she  believed,  when  she  put 
into  effect  her  determination  to  live  quietly  here,  away 
from  the  boil  and  froth  of  life,  to  be  definitely  over. 
Nor  had  she  even  those  memories  and  recollections  of 
life  and  love  which  are  sufficient  to  keep  a  woman  alive 
and  alert  till  the  end  of  her  days.  She  had  missed  that 
and  the  opportunity  of  those  days  would  not  come  to 
her  again. 

But  there  were  other  ways  apart  from  the  love  of 
husband  and  the  love  of  children  by  which  she  could 
keep  her  soul  alive,  and  keep  also  in  touch  with  things 
that  lived.  Nature,  the  Wonder  of  growing  things,  the 
miracle  of  running  Water,  the  flame  of  sunset  and  the 
white  splendour  of  moon-rise  were  all  things  that  spoke 
to  her  with  that  intimacy  known  only  to  the  real  lover 
of  Nature.  She  realised  how  big  a  part  in  her  healing 
had  the  silent,  mystical  touch  of  the  great  mother 
contributed:  birds  and  beasts  and  trees  and  flowers  had 


92  SHEAVES 

all  had  their  hand  in  it,  and  it  was  they  who  still  kept 
her  power  of  living  alive.  It  seemed  to  her  now  as  she 
superintended  and  took  active  part  in  the  making  of  the 
garden,  which  had  been  allowed  to  run  riot  in  the  un- 
occupied year  before  she  had  taken  this  house,  a  match- 
less miracle  that  when  she  dabbed  seeds  into  the  ground, 
a  little  rain  that  fell,  a  little  sun  that  shone,  a  little  dark- 
ness of  night  should  cause  the  slender  weak  spikes  of 
the  plant  to  pierce  the  earth.  A  thrush  built  a  nest  in 
the  box-hedge  that  separated  the  flower  garden  from  the 
other,  and  it  was  with  almost  incredulous  delight  that 
one  day  in  late  spring,  when  she  was  down  here  super- 
intending the  arrangement  of  her  furniture,  she  had  seen 
in  the  wattled  dome  of  the  nest  the  unfledged  birds,  all 
gaping  mouths  that  would  make  music  on  her  lawns  in 
another  year.  All  this,  the  flaming  of  the  Oriental 
poppies,  the  incense  of  the  mignonette,  the  carpets  of 
wild  flowers,  cistus  and  thyme  and  harebell  on  the  downs 
above,  she  knew  to  be  a  voice  that  spoke  to  her.  Humbly, 
reverently  she  listened  to  it,  to  its  words  of  healing;  but, 
oh,  how  much  more  passionately  could  she  have  loved 
it  had  it  been  the  accompaniment,  the  setting  of  the 
human  love  which  so  few  missed,  but  which  in  her  case 
had  been  blurred  and  marred  and  could  never  come 
back  again  in  splendour  of  banners! 

Then  again — and  this,  too,  was  so  much  more  attain- 
able in  the  country  than  in  London — there  was  still 
intellectual  achievement  possible  to  her,  by  which  she 
could  speak  intimately  with  others,  and  perhaps  be  a 
living  and  moving  force  in  the  world.  For  that,  and  for 
the  long  patient  concentration  of  thought  that  it 
demanded,  London  seemed  to  her  an  impossible  home; 
she  was  still  too  much  in  love  with  life  not  to  be  con- 
tinually distracted  by  the  bewildering  fury  of  it  there. 


SHEAVES  93 

The  spectacle  of  that  to  her,  as  to  Peggy,  was  absorb- 
ing; it  was  impossible  to  live  one's  own  life  in  town; 
all  the  hours  belonged,  as  if  in  small  allotments,  to  others, 
and  there  it  was  impossible  to  lead  that  detached  life 
Which  to  her  at  any  rate  seemed  to  be  an  essential  con- 
dition of  creative  work.  For  she  Was  no  quick  and 
nimble  Worker  for  whom  the  briskness  of  town  life 
seems  somehow  congenial  and  natural ;  it  Was  rather  in 
solitude,  in  quiet,  solitary  evenings,  in  rambles  alone 
over  that  open  and  exhilarating  down  that  her  thought 
matured  and  ripened  best.  It  had  been  thus,  though 
not  here,  that  "Gambits "  had  been  evolved;  it  would  be 
here  in  this  green,  pleasant  home  of  hers  that  she  would 
Work  out  and  elaborate  the  new  play  which  Was  already 
beginning  to  take  form  in  her  mind.  As  she  had  said 
to  Hugh  before  on  that  night  at  Cookham,  she  marvelled 
at  his  not  caring  to  set  his  mark  on  the  world,  to  make 
people  listen  to  him,  for  this  to  her  Was  something  of  a 
passion  which  she  could  not  imagine  unshared  by  others, 
and  the  fact  that  she  had  done  it,  had  tasted  the  intoxica- 
tion of  brilliant  success,  made  her  but  more  eager  to 
drink  of  it  again.  But  she  had  no  intention  of  living  a 
hermit's  existence,  and,  just  as  she  wished  to  avoid  the 
riot  and  rush  of  the  world,  so  she  had  no  idea  of  being  a 
recluse.  Solitary  hours  and  many  of  them  she  wished 
for,  but  she  filled  up  much  of  the  day  in  the  quiet, 
unexciting  life  of  the  place,  for  it  was  part  of  her  plan  to 
be  busy,  though  not  at  the  break-neck,  runaway  pace 
of  Peggy.  For  she  still  had  to  keep  her  head  turned  in 
the  direction  of  the  future  and  averted  from  the  past, 
and  when  she  Was  not  at  Work  it  Was  just  in  these  cheer- 
ful little  local  employments  that  she  could  pass  the  time 
pleasantly  but  unemotionally.  Then,  too,  there  was 
the  garden,  which  like  some  hungry  animal  swallowed 


94  SHEAVES 

at  a  gulp  all  the  time  she  could  give  to  it,  though  that 
time  was  considerable.  For  here  the  two  main  strands 
of  her  life  as  she  had  planned  it  were  interwoven ;  Nature, 
grateful  for  and  eagerly  responding  to  her  ministrations, 
spoke  to  her  from  the  garden-beds,  while  some  separate 
compartment  of  her  brain,  so  it  seemed,  was  brooding 
and  busy,  unconsciously  for  the  most  part,  turning  over 
in  the  cool  darkness  of  it  the  scenes,  the  combinations, 
the  characters  of  the  next  play.  Sometimes  out  of  that 
darkness  would  leap  a  sudden  flash  that  she  was  wholly 
conscious  of,  and  showed  her  how  that  subconscious  self 
had  been  busy  sorting,  turning-  over,  accepting  and 
rejecting  till  a  definite  point,  a  clenched  situation  was 
struck  out. 

On  this  Saturday  morning,  the  day  following  that  on 
Which  Hugh  had  come  down  to  St.  Olaf's,  there  was 
grim  and  deadly  work  before  her,  and  with  much  mis- 
giving and  an  almost  fanatical  honesty  she  had  deter- 
mined that  she  had  to  do  it  herself,  since  the  kitchen 
garden  was  still  much  behindhand,  and  the  heavy 
digging  to  be  done  there  was  a  work  that  would  employ 
the  efforts  of  both  her  gardeners.  So  this  morning  she 
sallied  out,  with  thick  gloves  on,  and  armed  with  a  jar 
of  brine  and  a  small  wooden  peg,  for  even  with  gloves 
she  could  not  bring  herself  to  touch  the  slugs  that  she 
hoped  and  yet  feared  she  would  find  on  the  traps  she 
had  put  for  them.  For  the  evening  before  she  had  laid 
down  at  small  and  hospitable  intervals  a  \vhole  bushel 
of  thinly-sliced  potato:  then  came  in  the  little  wooden 
peg  to  transfer  them  to  the  jar  of  brine.  When  she 
looked  at  her  nibbled  seedlings,  she  hardened  her  heart, 
but  when  she  looked  at  the  spread  feast  of  sliced  potato 
she  dreaded  to  find  the  guests  for  whom  she  hud  spread 
it.  Of  course,  she  might  have  ordered  a  gardener  away 


SHEAVES  95 

from  the  kitchen  garden  to  do  it  for  her,  but  it  was  only 
the  weakness  of  the  flesh  that  suggested  that.  She 
Wanted  to  do  things  herself,  and  not  be  lily-handed. 
But  she  sincerely  hoped  there  Would  not  be  many  slugs. 

She  turned  over  the  first  piece  of  potato  and  found  to 
her  inexpressible  relief  that  the  purpose  for  which  she 
had  put  it  there  Was  quite  unfulfilled.  But  at  the 
second  there  Was  a  huge  one,  tortoise-shell  coloured. 

She  put  the  brine-pot  down  on  the  garden  path  and, 
suppressing  a  shudder,  tried  to  steel  herself  by  thinking 
of  the  pansies  whose  faces  had  been  eaten,  of  the  Phlox 
drummondii  which  she  had  sown  in  such  profusion,  but 
Which  had  never  arrived  at  greater  maturity  than  small 
spikes  of  leafless  stem.  She  told  herself,  on  the  other 
side,  that  it  was  far  better  and  wiser  to  spend  the  morn- 
ing in  Work,  to  answer  all  the  letters  that  certainly  did 
Want  answering.  Did  she  not  pay  two  iron-nerved 
gardeners  to  do  that  sort  of  thing?  At  this  moment 
she  positively  loathed  Canon  Alington,  who  had  recom- 
mended to  her  this  most  deadly  plan  of  entrapping  slugs, 
simply  because  it  Was  so  brilliantly  successful.  Yet  how 
mean  and  treacherous  an  operation!  She  spread  the 
bounteous  table  on  her  garden-beds,  and  when  her  guests 
came,  even  While  the  flesh  was  yet  in  their  mouths,  their 
host  arrived  with  death  in  the  brine-pot!  And  all  the 
time  she  knew  this  Was  false  sentimentality,  and  not  the 
least  real  even  to  herself.  She  was  pumping  it  up  in  order 
to  find  some  excuse  for  not  putting  that  dreadful  tortoise- 
shell  slug  in  the  brine,  not  because  she  loved  or  respected 
his  life  in  the  smallest  degree  or  felt  really  any  duties  of  a 
host  towards  him,  but  because  the  operation  Was  so 
disgusting.  And  "Oh,  this  is  not  kindness,  my  poor 
Edith,"  she  said  to  herself;  "it  is  sheer  cowardice! " 

For  the  moment,  however,  she  was  given  a  respite, 


96  SHEAVES 

for  from  the  open  French  window  of  the  drawing-room 
her  butler  appeared  carrying  a  salver  on  which  was  a 
card.  She  tried  to  think  to  herself  that  it  was  very 
tiresome  being  interrupted  in  the  morning,  and  knew 
that  it  was  not.  Then  she  took  the  card. 

"Oh,  yes,  ask  Mr.  Grainger  to  come  out  into  the 
garden!"  she  said. 

Hugh  came  out,  hatless,  from  the  house,  and  she 
advanced  to  meet  him,  pulling  off  one  of  her  heavy 
leather  gloves. 

"Ah,  this  is  delightful,  Mr.  Hugh!  "  she  said.  "  Canon 
Alington  told  me  last  week  that  you  would  be  down 
here  some  day  soon,  though  he  did  not  then  know  the 
exact  date.  And  you  have  remembered  your  promise 
to  come  to  see  me.  You'll  stop  for  lunch,  won't  you?" 

"Why,  yes,  please,"  said  Hugh,  "if  you  are  sure  you 
can  bear  me  till  then." 

He  looked  at  his  Watch. 

"I  am  bound  to  tell  you  it  is  only  just  half-past 
eleven,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  I  really  can  bear  you  till  then.  This  dear  place 
is  like  a  new  toy  to  me  still,  and  I  have  to  show  every- 
thing to  everybody  who  comes,  down  to  the  wood-shed 
Where  a  very  fierce  cat  with  kittens  will  fly  at  you  if  you 
go  too  close,  and  a  half-built  hen-yard  where  at  present 
five  mournful  hens  are  putting  dust  on  their  heads  in  the 
manner  of  Oriental  widows  because  their  husband  is  no 
more." 

"Did  you  have  a  funeral?"  asked  Hugh.  "Daisy 
and  I  had  a  beautiful  funeral  yesterday  over  a  dead 
mouse." 

"No;  you  weren't  here  to  help,  and,  like  Peggy,  I'm 
not  good  at  playing.  Besides,  the  corpse  was  missing. 
It  had  been  eaten," 


SHEAVES  97 

She,  too,  was  hatless,  and  the  breeze  and  the  sun  of 
summer  seemed  to  shine  in  her  face.  Young  as  she 
always  looked  in  this  superb  noon  of  her  beauty,  this 
fortnight  of  open-air  life  seemed  to  have  flushed  and 
flooded  her  with  its  freshness.  Quickly  and  easily  as 
they  had  made  friends,  it  seemed  to  Hugh  that  in  this 
moment  and  over  their  trivial  Words  a  great  step  toward 
further  intimacy  had  been  taken.  Though  this  impres- 
sion was  as  instantaneous  a  result  as  some  drowsy  flash 
of  summer  lightning,  it  had  been  there;  far  away  in 
those  clouds  the  authentic  fire  of  the  heavens  had 
gleamed. 

"Ah,  I  am  sure  you  could  play  beautifully,"  he  said, 
"because  you  said  that  so  seriously!  And  Were  you 
playing  all  by  yourself  here  when  I  came  out?  What 
are  you  playing  with?"  he  added,  looking  at  the  brine- 
pot. 

Edith  groaned. 

"You  wouldn't  call  it  play  if  you  knew,"  she  said. 
"Oh,  Mr.  Hugh,  be  a  true  friend  and  help  a  woman  in 
distress!  Just  this  once,  and  then  we'll  go  and  walk 
round  the  place." 

"What  am  I  to  do?"  he  asked.  "And  are  you  the 
distressed  woman?" 

"Yes.  Take  this  small  wooden  peg,  and  look  at  the 
second  piece  of  potato  there.  You  will  find  an  immense 
slug.  Gather  it  somehow  on  to  the  peg  and  drop  it 
into  that  pot,  which  contains  salt  and  Water,  and  kills 
them,  I  am  told,  quite  instantaneously  and  even 
pleasantly." 

"Why,  certainly,"  said  Hugh  cheerfully.  "And  do 
we  have  to  examine  all  these  bits  of  potato?  My 
gracious,  what  an  elephant!  Do  you  know,  I  really 
don't  think  I  can  do  it." 


98  SHEAVES 

Edith  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad  you  can't!"  she  said.  "Because 
I  was  afraid  I  was  being  a  coward." 

"Oh,  we're  both  cowards!"  said  Hugh. 

"And  aren't  you  ashamed  of  us?" 

"Not  in  the  least.  It  would  disgust  you  and  me  in 
a  disproportionate  manner  to  do  it,  and  it  wouldn't 
disgust  a  gardener  at  all.  So  it  is  clearly  a  case  for 
cooperative  labour." 

"You  exhibit  a  mind  full  of  true  grasp,  Mr.  Hugh," 
said  she.  "Let  us  go  and  find  a  gardener.  The  slug 
has  dined;  he  will  not  go  away." 

"When  he  dines  he  sleeps,"  remarked  Hugh. 

"And  you  are  staying  at  St.  Olaf's?"  she  asked,  as 
they  walked  off  down  the  border,  leaving  the  unused 
apparatus  of  death  behind.  "Now,  to  be  candid:  am 
I  a  little  in  disgrace  with  Canon  Alington?" 

"Yes,"  said  Hugh  promptly. 

"And  is  it  because  I  asked  them  to  dine  on  Sunday 
evening?  Ah,  I  knew  it  was!  How  stupid  and  unadapt- 
able one  is!  I  put  dinner  at  half-past  eight  on  purpose 
so  that  it  Would  be  quite  free  of  church,  and  it  never 
occurred  to  me  at  the  time  that  very  likely  he  did  not 
dine  out  on  Sunday.  When  will  one  learn  to  put  one- 
self in  the  position  and  environment  of  other  people?" 

"Are  you  very  lacking  in  that?"  asked  he. 

"Yes.  Oh,  I  can  see  other  points  of  view  to  a  certain 
extent  when  I  am  taken  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck,  and 
held  down  to  them,  but  I  never  anticipate  or  imagine 
them.  And  how  is  one  to  learn  that  sort  of  thing? 
And  what  of  Peggy  and  town  generally?" 

"I  dined  with  her  two  nights  ago,  and  we  Went  to 
'Gambits'  again.  It  is  still  crammed." 

'•'Ah,  one  wondered  whether  the  enthusiasm  of  the 


SHEAVES  99 

first  night  Was  likely  to  last.  It  seems  as  if  it  would 
now.  And  have  you  been  more  than  that  twice?" 

Hugh  made  a  short,  silent  calculation. 

"I've  been  either  seven  or  eight  times,"  he  said. 
"Oh,  do  let's  go  again  together!  I  don't  believe  you 
really  appreciated  it.  Of  course  you  liked  it,  but  I 
don't  think  you  saw,  in  fact  nobody  can  the  first  time, 
how  heavenly  it  is,  how  fine!  There  is  no  play  like  it; 
it  has  a  peculiar  quality  quite  different  from  anything 
else.  What  a  mind  Andrew's — I  call  him  Andrew  now 
because  I  feel  I  know  him  so  Well — must  be.  How  I've 
intrigued  to  find  out  who  he  is.  Perhaps,  after  all,  he 
is  some  gray  wise  old  Scotchman,  like  the  people  in  the 
kail-yard  school,  who  really  has  thought  out  the  truth 
of  things  all  alone  up  in  Inverness  or  somewhere  dread- 
ful. And  yet  I  don't  know;  there  are  things  in  it  that 
must  have  been  Written  by  a  Woman.  But,  on  the  other 
hand,  there  are  things  that  must  have  been  Written  by 
a  man.  Also  Andrew  Robb  must  be  quite  young,  or 
he  couldn't  have  seen  into  the  girl's  heart  like  that, 
and  he  must  be  quite  old,  or  he  couldn't  tell  you 
what  he  saw." 

For  one  moment,  Edith  felt  as  if  she  had  been  over- 
hearing remarks  about  herself,  and  was  in  honour 
bound  to  make  her  presence  known.  But  she  simply 
could  not;  she  felt  herself  unable  to  stop  Hugh,  so  irre- 
sistible Was  the  desire  to  hear  him  talk  to  her  so  can- 
didly with  such  huge  appreciation,  while  she,  listening, 
drinking  it  in,  decking  herself,  as  it  Were,  in  his  phrases 
and  praise,  sat  all  the  time  secret. 

"Oh,  you  should  have  heard  my  brother-in-law  on 
the  subject  last  night!"  he  continued.  "His  upper 
lip  grew  longer  and  longer,  like  Alice  when  she  ate  the 
mushrooms,  as  he  talked  about  it.  And  he  hadn't  seen 


ioo  SHEAVES 

the  play,  I  may  tell  you,  he  had  read  a  review  of  it. 
But— 

Hugh  stopped,  with  amusement  breaking  from  his 
eyes  and  the  corners  of  his  mouth.  The  impulse  grew 
irresistible,  and  he  threw  back  his  head  and  gave  a  great 
crack  of  laughter. 

"I  know  I  can  say  these  things'  to  you,"  he  said, 
"because  you  will  understand.  If  I  didn't  tell  some- 
body about  it  and  laugh  over  it,  I  should  get  angry, 
which  would  be  a  pity.  I  nearly  got  angry  last  night, 
but  then  I  promised  myself  to  tell  you  this  morning, 
and  so  instead  I  treasured  it  all  up,  occasionally  drawing 
him  on,  though  he  didn't  need  much  of  that." 

The  infection  of  Hugh's  merriment  could  not  but 
capture  her,  too,  for  Hugh's  description  of  the  upper 
lip  Was  gloriously  apt. 

"But  you  haven't  told  me  what  he  said  yet,"  she 
remarked. 

"  I  know  I  haven't.  Oh,  I  wish  laughing  did  not  hurt 
so!  Well,  down  came  the  upper  lip,  and  he  kindly 
sketched  the  outline  of  the  play  to  me,  to  me,  so  that  I 
should  see,  when  the  trappings  and  embellishments  of 
scenery  and  character  were  removed,  what  the  spirit 
of  it  really  was.  You  may  not  believe  he  used  that 
phrase,  but  he  did.  Trappings  and  embellishments  of 
character!  Just  think  it  over.  To  proceed;  it  was 
quite  unnecessary,  and  in  this  case  it  Would  be  harmful 
to  see  the  play,  because  he  could  read  what  it  Was  about, 
and  could  also  read  between  the  lines.  The  moral  of 
the  play  was  that  wives  should  fall  in  love  with  other 
men  than  their  husbands,  and  that  their  husbands  should 
commit  suicide  in  order  to  allow  them  to  gratify  their 
passions.  He  said  it  in  those  very  words,  because  I 
have  an  extraordinary  memory  when  I  attend." 


SHEAVES  101 

Mrs.  Allbutt  frowned. 

"But  it's  ludicrous,"  she  said.  "I  never  heard  any- 
thing so  unfair  and  malicious." 

"No,  he's  not  that,"  said  Hugh.  "He  is  only  very, 
very  much  in  character.  You  see  he  is  a  clergyman, 
and,  whereas  a  judge  isn't  judging  all  the  time,  but  can 
get  off  the  bench  and  commit,  if  he  likes,  the  crimes 
for  which  he  sentences  other  people,  and  Parliament 
rises  for  the  M.  P.,  and  everybody  else  has  their  Saturday 
afternoons  out  and  their  Sundays  off,  the  clergyman 
goes  on  all  the  time.  And,  do  you  know,  I  think  being 
any  one  thing  quite  all  the  time  tends  to  make  people 
a  little  narrow." 

"You  don't  really  mean  that?"  asked  Edith,  with 
immense  gravity. 

"I  do,  indeed!  Up  to  this  point  I  hadn't  been  able 
to  get  a  word  in  edgeways,  but  here  I  plunged  and  told 
him  I  Went  several  times  a  week.  Oh,  and  I  haven't 
told  you  what  Andrew  Robb  has  done  for  me!" 

"No;  what  except  make  you  spend  a  good  deal  of 
time  at  the  theatre?" 

"Well,  he's  made  me  determine  to  spend  more," 
said  Hugh.  "Can't  you  guess?" 

Edith's  face  flushed,  and  she  stood  quite  still. 

"The  opera,  do  you  mean?"  she  asked. 

"Yes.  He,  and  the  sight  of  the  theatre  crammed 
every  night  with  silent,  eager  people  made  me  feel  what 
I  hadn't  ever  really  felt  when  you  spoke  to  me  once 
about  it  at  Cookham,  namely,  what  a  big  and  Wonder- 
ful thing  it  must  be  to  impress  yourself  on  other  people. 
Also,  in  my  small  Way,  I  began  to  see  what  Reuss  meant 
by  its  not  being  fair  on  him.  For  suppose  Andrew, 
capable  of  Writing  that  play,  had  not  done  so,  how 
rightly  indignant  we  should  have  been.  So,  perhaps 


io2  SHEAVES 

in  our  own  little  ways,  We  all  have  to  do  our  tricks.  I 
wrote  to  Reuss  three  days  ago,  and  heard  from  him 
this  morning,  and  so  I  have  to  go  to  Frankfort  early 
in  October,  and  study  there  all  winter,  unless  I  can 
induce  Reuss  to  come  to  London.  I  wish  to  heaven  I 
had  a  voice  like  a  crow.  I  shan't  have  time  for  any- 
thing all  winter  except  singing  and  singing  and  never 
satisfying  Reuss.  And  what  does  it  all  come  to,  com- 
pared to  the  fact  that  months  and  months  will  havo 
gone,  and  I  shall  have  nothing,  nothing  out  of  them 
except  a  slightly  better  pronunciation  of  German,  and 
a  rather  more  finished  way^of  leaving  off  loud  on  a  top- 
note.  All  in  order  to  sing  to  a  lot  of  people  who  are 
merely  waiting  till  the  end  of  the  act  in  order  to  see 
who  it  is  in  the  box  opposite  with  the  diamonds.  Mrs. 
Allbutt,  do  you  really  think  it  is  Worth  while?" 

She  shook  her  head  at  him. 

"But  what  a  foolish  question!"  she  said.  "As  if 
it  wasn't  worth  while  spending  all  one's  life  to  do  any- 
thing well.  Most  people  can't!  They  are  incapable 
of  excellence.  But,  Mr.  Hugh,  I  assure  you  there  are 
masses  of  people  who  adore  excellence,  only  they  can't 
attain  it  themselves.  Of  course  there  are  heaps  of 
foolish  and  flippant  creatures  who,  as  you  say,  only 
wonder  Who  is  wearing  those  diamonds,  but  what  do 
they  matter?  You  don't  mind  berause  the  cab-horses 
in  the  street  don't  know  what  an  ar''j»t  you  are." 

Hugh  sighed,  and  pulled  down  his  upper  lip  with  a 
ludicrous  resemblance  to  his  brother-in-law. 

"London  is  a  very  wicked  place,"  he  said,  "and 
makes  a  business  of  its  pleasures,  whereas  we  here  in 
Mannington  make  a  pleasure  of  our  business.  Oh,  I 
forgot,  it  was  my  sister  who  said  that!  Let's  talk  about 
something  else.  I  should  like  Andrew  Robb  to  know 


SHEAVES  103 

what  a  difference  he  has  made  to  me,  and  how,  just 
because  of  him,  I  am  going  to  make  a  fool  of  myself 
at  Covent  Garden." 

"You  haven't  done  that  yet,"  remarked  Edith. 

"No,  but  I  shall.  I  told  Dick  and  my  sister,  by  the 
Way,  about  it,  but  they  rather  disapproved.  They 
don't  think  that  it  is  a  serious  career.  Dick  urged  me 
very  strongly  to  send  in  my  name  as  a  candidate  for  the 
Education  Department,  in  addition  to  taking  this 
engagement.  Education  Department — me!  There  is 
quiet  humour  about  that,  don't  you  think?  The  hours, 
as  he  pointed  out,  were  only  from  eleven  till  five,  so  that 
I  should  have  plenty  of  time  to  keep  up  my  singing. 
Also,  as  he  justly  observed,  I  should  not  be  singing 
more  than  a  couple  of  nights  a  Week,  and  that  only 
While  Wagner  opera  was  being  given.  We  are  going 
to  have  a  talk  about  it  all  this  evening.  He  strongly 
advises  the  Education  Department,  and  dissuades  me 
from  the  opera,  but  he  doesn't  see  why  they  shouldn't 
be  worked  together.  Lord,  how  I  jaw  about  myself! 
I  apologise.  Only  I  am  so  dreadfully  interested  in  it 
all  this  minute.  Where's  the  cat  and  the  Woodshed?" 

Edith  sat  down  firmly  on  a  garden  bench. 

"The  Woodshed  will  Wait,"  she  said,  "and  the  cat  will 
fly  at  you  just  the  same  in  ten  minutes  from  now.  I 
Want  to  tell  you  how  delighted  I  am  with  your  decision, 
and,  indeed,  that  is  not  wholly  selfish  on  my  part, 
though  I  anticipate  the  most  enormous  pleasure  from 
hearing  you  sing  in  opera.  But  for  other  reasons  also; 
you  see  I  am  Peggy's  sister,  and  I  think  We  are  very 
much  alike  in  some  ways.  We  both  Want  people  to 
screw  the  utmost  ounce  out  of  themselves,  and  it  seemed 
to  us  both  that  you  had  masses  of  ounces  that  Were  not 
being  screwed  out.  You  sang  to  us  divinely:  you 


io4  SHEAVES 

sang    that    shepherd's    lullaby    just     as    divinely     to 
Daisy " 

"  How  did  you  know  I  sang  it? "  asked  Hugh  quickly. 

Edith  was  honest;  that  was  as  essential  a  character- 
istic of  her  as  was  the  absence  of  self-consciousness  in 
Hugh. 

"  Because  I  listened,"  she  said.  "Also  I  spied  through 
the  chink  of  the  nursery  door.  You  left  it  open.  I  also 
apologise — no,  I  don't.  I  didn't  do  any  harm.  I'm 
not  ashamed." 

Once  again  intimacy,  like  the  flash  of  summer  light- 
ning, broke  the  cloud.  It  had  moved  nearer. 

"Yes,   I  listened  to  you  singing  that  bad  child  to 
sleep,"   she  continued;  "and   I   saw  you  through   the 
chink  of  the  door.     I  thought  it  very  nice  of  you.     I 
liked  you  for  it." 

Hugh  had  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  grass  when  she 
took  the  garden-seat.  And  at  that  he  looked  up  at  her 
quickly,  and  met  those  dark  kind  eyes. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said. 

At  that  moment  she  also  knew  that  the  flash  of  sum- 
mer lightning  Was  there.  She  knew  that  there  was 
attraction  and  fire  in  the  atmosphere.  And  she  behaved 
as  one  Who  wished  to  get  home,  out  of  range  of  these 
elements,  before  the  storm  came  nearer.  Alone,  in  the 
house,  with  the  blinds  drawn  down,  she  would  be  secure, 
with  the  security  that  she  had  sought  in  coming  down 
to  this  peaceful,  meadow-encompassed  house,  where 
the  nearest  and  loudest  sounds  of  life  were  the  drowsy 
drone  of  the  folk  in  Mannington  who  were  so  unabsorb- 
ingly  busy  over  provincial  interests.  Here  she  could 
be  busy  herself  over  her  garden  and  her  writing,  want- 
ing no  more,  and  quite  content  with  this  calm  sunrise 
on  her  wreck.  Yet  even  at  the  moment  when  she  said 


SHEAVES  105 

to  herself  that  she  wished  just  to  pull  the  blinds  down 
and  sit  by  her  solitary  fireside,  she  knew  that  she  wanted 
to  pull  them  up,  and  look,  nothing  more,  into  the  open 
night.  In  any  case  she  did  not  show  her  desire  to  him. 

"Yes,  that  is  what  Peggy  and  I  both  felt,"  she  said. 
"We  both  wanted  you  to  use  your  time.  Of  course 
people  like  to  see  you,  and  ask  you  to  dinner  and  to 
Saturdays  till  Mondays,  and  it  is  all  so  pleasant,  and  there 
is  amusing  talk,  and  plans,  and  another  party  next 
Tuesday  Week.  But  I  do  feel  that  anybody  who  can 
do  something,  ought  to  do  it,  and  not  make  the  mere 
distraction  and  froth  of  life  into  life.  Most  people 
can't  do  anything  particular.  Well?" 

Hugh  had  looked  up  again,  clearly  with  words  on 
his  tongue. 

"But  you,"  he  said.  "Of  course  you  could  do  some- 
thing; one  feels  that  every  moment  that  one  is  with 
you.  You  have  just  as  much  force  as  Peggy — she  told 
me  to  call  her  Peggy,  by  the  way;  don't  you  hate  people 
who  allude  to  others  by  their  Christian  names,  when 
they  don't  use  them  to  them?" 

"Yes,  I  loathe  them.     About  me?" 

"You,  you  have  force;  you  understand,  which  is 
force.  If  we  have  all  got  to  do  something,  why  not  set 
us  an  example.  You  don't  even  kill  slugs." 

"Nor  do  you,"  said  she. 

"Because  gardening  isn't  my  plan.  Hang  it  all,  I've 
had  a  plan  now  for  twenty-four  hours.  I  am  in  the 
first  head  of  missionary  enterprise." 

The  blinds  were  not  quite  drawn  down  yet ;  once  again 
she  had  to  peer  into  the  night. 

' '  That  is  a  fair  question , ' '  she  said .  "I  answer  that  you 
don't  yet  know,  and  I  hope  you  may  never  know,  how 
great  a  task  it  is  to  forget.  There  are  years  of  my  life 


io6  SHEAVES 

which  need  to  be  forgotten  before  I  could  begin  to  live 
again.  That  has  occupied  me  very  completely.  For- 
giveness, I  think,  is  included  in  that;  to  forget  implies  it." 

Hugh  stared  a  moment. 

"Why,  in  'Gambits'-        "  he  began. 

"Yes,  I  remember  it  "was  phrased  like  that  in  the  play. 
Amherst  said  that  death  would  mean  forgetting,  and 
therefore  forgiving.  It  seemed  to  me  very  true.  But 
I  have  not  the  slightest  intention  of  committing  sucide." 

She  got  up  as  she  spoke,  but  Hugh  from  the  ground 
was  standing  before  she  had  risen  from  her  seat. 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  said.     "I  did  not  mean — 

"Ah,  no,  I  know  that!  But  even  if  you  had  meant 
it,  why  not?  For  a  great  point  of  forgetting  is  that  any 
allusion — though  you  did  not  allude — cannot  hurt 
one.  Besides " 

She  paused  a  moment;  then  looked  at  him  with 
those  level  kindly  eyes.  Then  she  checked  what  was 
in  her  mind  before  it  came  to  the  tongue. 

"Besides,  we  have  to  see  the  woodshed,"  she  added 
instead. 

Thereafter  the  time  till  lunch  was  very  fully  occupied. 
A  vixen  of  a  cat  flew  at  Hugh,  who,  in  spite  of  warning, 
had  entered  the  dangerous  woodshed,  and  he  retreated 
with  cries  of  dismay,  leaving  a  globe  of  spitting,  scowling 
motherhood  in  possession  of  the  doorway.  Then  the 
unhusbanded  hen-yard  gave  rise  to  philosophic  reflec- 
tion arising  from  the  fact  that  if  a  man  practises  poly- 
gamy his  death,  if  he  is  loved,  is  polygamously  painful, 
and  in  any  case  must  result  in  widows'  disputation  of 
the  property.  On  the  other  hand,  in  the  case  of  hens,  it 
was  easy — in  fact,  it  Was  going  to  be  done  this  afternoon 
— to  substitute  another  husband  for  the  lately  deceased, 
and  nobody  would  know  the  difference.  Then  the  kitchen 


SHEAVES  107 

garden  was  visited,  and  from  thence  a  gardener,  even 
in  the  very  act  of  nailing  up  a  peach-tree,  was  sent  to 
look  for  a  tortoise-shell  slug  on  the  second  slice  of  potato 
counting  from  the  far  end,  and  for  any  other  slugs.  The 
pot  of  brine,  Mrs.  Allbutt  told  him,  was  in  the  middle 
of  the  gravel  walk  and  could  not  be  missed.  Then  they 
skirted  the  bramble-grown  chalk-pit,  passed  through  the 
beech-wood,  and  went  out  of  the  gate  in  the  wooden 
fence  to  Walk  a  little  way  up  the  steep  down-side  from 
where  they  could  get  a  comprehensive  view  of  house, 
garden,  and  wood.  All  the  myriad  wild  flowers  of 
downland  were  in  bloom  and  fragrance — cistus,  hairbell, 
thyme,  and  dwarf  meadow-sweet,  and  the  company  of 
low-growing  clovers.  From  where  they  paused  they 
could  see  over  the  pale  green  beech-wood  through  which 
they  had  just  come  to  where  the  red  house,  with  just  a 
thin  coil  of  blue  smoke  going  up  from  one  chimney  and 
soon  vanishing  in  the  gold-suffused  blue  of  the  noon, 
stood  sunning  itself,  and  looking  from  under  the  sun- 
blinds  of  its  windows,  as  if  from  half-shut  eyes,  on  to 
the  jewelled  flower-garden  and  the  level  sea  of  vivid 
green  that  bordered  the  chalk-stream.  The  white 
riband  of  the  road,  dusty  and  sun-grilled,  that  passed 
by  its  fence  Was  quite  cut  off  from  it  by  the  belt  of  trees 
that  grew  within,  and  it  stood  embowered  in  boughs 
and  green,  alone  with  its  enchanting  company  of  quiet 
living  things. 

She  stopped  when  they  had  climbed  this  hundred 
feet  or  so  of  down. 

"There,"  she  said,  "that  is  my  favourite  view  of  my 
dear  home,  for  though  I  have  been  here  so  few  weeks, 
it  has  become  Wonderfully  homey  to  me.  I  come  up 
here  every  day,  and  really  envy  the  fortunate  person 
who  lives  there.  Though  she  is  so  cut  off,  I  feel  sure 


io8  SHEAVES 

she  cannot  be  lonely.  She  ought  indeed  to  be  very 
busy,  and  find  every  day  much  too  short,  if  she  takes 
the  least  pleasure  in  or  care  for  all  her  trees  and  flowers." 

Hugh  moved  a  step  nearer. 

"Ah,  go  on,"  he  said;  "I  like  hearing  about  her! 
Tell  me  more  about  her." 

"Well,  she  has  been  ve'ry  busy  all  the  time  she  has 
been  here,  out  of  doors  most  of  the  day,  and  leaving 
a  quantity  of  letters  unanswered  in  consequence.  And 
sometimes  her  friends  come  and  see  her,  and  she  finds 
that  very  pleasant  also.  And  sometimes  she  goes  up  to 
town  and  flies  about  as  if  she  were  quite  young  still, 
but  it  rather  tires  and  confuses  her,  and  she  finds  she  is 
glad  to  get  back.  And  when  autumn  comes  she  will 
see  her  trees  flame  in  the  sunset  of  their  year,  and  she 
will  still  be  busy,  putting  her  flowers  to  bed  for  the 
winter,  and  tucking  them  up,  and  seeing  that  all  is  com- 
fortable. Indoors,  too,  she  has  another  garden  of  books, 
and  when  winter  comes  and  days  are  short  and  dark, 
with  weeping  skies  overhead  and  fretful  angry  rain 
flung  against  her  window-panes,  she  will  be  busy  with  her 
indoor  garden,  and  again  find  the  days  too  short.  There 
will  be  fine  days  as  v/ell,  and  she  hopes  to  walk  over 
these  downs  that  will  be  all  gray  and  flowerless  in  those 
crystal  winter  suns,  and  often  too  she  v/ill  have  things 
to  do  in  Mannington,  for  she  really  is  a  friendly  person, 
and  no  doubt  will  find  friends  there ;  and  perhaps  some 
day,  out  of  the  years  that  have  passed  and  out  of  v/hat 
she  has  learned  and  is  still  learning,  her  mind  will  put 
out  a  little  flower  of  its  own.  And  often  too  in  the  v/in- 
ter  she  hopes  her  friends  will  still  come  and  see  her,  and 
consent  to  bury  themselves  for  a  day  or  two  now  and 
then  in  the  country." 

Again  she  paused  and  smiled  at  Hugh,  who  was  looking 


SHEAVES  109 

at  her  with  his  eager  boyish  gaze.  And  since  he, 
with  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  would  soon  know  what 
she  had  in  her  mind,  it  did  not  matter  whether  he  knew 
it  a  little  earlier  than  the  rest  or  not.  Besides,  the 
impulse  to  tell  him  somehow  Was  irresistible — and  in 
a  way,  since  What  she  had  written  had  indirectly  any- 
how decided  his  career,  he  had  a  certain  right  to  know. 

But  for  the  moment  he  interrupted  her. 

"Oh,  but  what  a  heavenly  story  you  are  telling  me! " 
he  cried.  "And  the  little  flower  of  your  own — what 
do  you  mean?  Are  you  writing  something,  or  painting, 
or  what?" 

"Yes,  the  fortunate  woman  who  lives  down  there  is 
hoping  to  make  a  little  flower  of  ink.  She  has  already 
made  one,  such  as  it  is,  and  her  friends,  and  even  other 
people  as  well,  like  that  little  ink-flower;  though,  of 
course,  tastes  differ,  and  others  say  it  is  a  disgraceful, 
horrid  weed.  She  has  heard  several  people  talk  about 
it.  But  nobody,  except  Peggy,  knows  that  it  came  from 
her  own  garden,  and  though  you  are  going  to  know  this 
minute,  dear  Mr.  Hugh,  you  musn't  tell  anybody  till 
I  give  you  leave.  Because  at  present  everybody  thinks 
that  it  came  from  the  garden  of  Andrew  Robb.  Yes, 
it  is  called  'Gambits.'  ' 

Hugh  stood  quite  silent;  then  he  gave  a  long  sigh, 
and  let  his  eyes  wander  over  the  down,  over  the  trees  and 
house  that  lay  below,  the  still,  sky-reflecting  streak  of 
the  Kennet  through  the  Water-meadows.  Then,  still 
quite  grave,  he  looked  at  her  again,  as  if  half  dazed  by 
the  news  that  he  felt  instinctively  was  big  with  import 
for  him. 

Then  he  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"Ah,  dear  Andrew  Robb,"  he  said,  "at  last  I  have 
found  you;  at  last  I  can  thank  you." 


no  SHEAVES 

Then  suddenly  a  hugh  wave  of  exultation  swept  over 
him,  though  he  did  not  at  the  moment  know  its  signifi- 
cance, nor  from  what  fathomless  and  mighty  sea  it  came, 
and  he  threw  his  hat  high  in  the  air  and  caught  it  again. 

"  I  never  heard  of  anything  so  splendid  in  all  my  life!  '* 
he  cried. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  President  of  the  "Literific,"  who  was  wonder- 
fully well  equipped  for  that  office,  for  she  habitu- 
ally spent  Weeks  in  London  every  year,  and  during  them 
positively  lived  in  galleries,  concert-rooms,  and  theatres 
and  had  been  to  Venice  no  less  than  four  distinct  times, 
was  dining  informally,  "taking  pot-luck,"  as  Canon 
Alington  expressed  it,  at  his  vicarage  that  night,  and 
he  could  not  but  feel  that  it  Was  a  fortunate  circumstance 
than  Mrs.  Owen  should  thus  be  dropping  in  while  Hugh 
was  there,  for  he  distinctly  liked  Hugh  to  know  that 
though  they  lived  in  the  provinces  they  Were  not  pro- 
vincial, and  that  the  pulse  of  artistic  and  intellectual 
life  beat  as  strongly,  if  not  more  strongly,  at  Mannington 
than  in  town.  The  last  of  Mrs.  Alington's  fortnightly 
dinners  had  taken  place  only  the  week  before,  so  that 
it  was  impossible  to  parade  the  intellect  of  Mannington 
in  its  cohorts,  but,  as  her  husband  dressed  for  dinner, 
he  thought  that  this  one  informal  guest  would  be  likely 
tc  give  Hugh  a  better  notion  of  the  high  mental  activity 
of  Mannington  than  even  one  of  the  larger  and  more 
formal  parties  could  have  done.  For  Mrs.  Owen,  the 
brightest  star  in  their  intellectual  constellation,  really 
shone  best  alone,  and  Agnes  often  told  her  husband 
that  he  never  talked  half  so  well  to  her  as  he  did  to 
Mrs  Owen. 

This  was  quite  true,  though  the  sentiment  had  no 
touch  of  resentment  or  regret  about  it,  for  Agnes  was 
perfectly  aware  that  it  was  quite  natural  that  it  should 
be  so.  For  she  had  so  identified  herself  with  all  the 


ii2  SHEAVES 

tastes,  pursuits  and  industries  of  her  husband's  life  that 
such  a  thing  as  discussion,  except  on  such  points  as 
floral  decoration  or  outdoor  relief,  could  hardly  exist 
between  them.  But  Mrs.  Owen  always  had  some  fresh 
topic  of  literary  or  artistic  interest,  as  indeed  a  person 
who  was  quite  in  "a  set"  in  London  and  went  to  Venice 
so  frequently  could  not  fail  to  have,  and  necessarily 
she  could  talk  about  Tintoret  to  Canon  Alington  and 
strike  out  fresh  lights  from  him  in  a  way  that  Agnes 
was  incapable  of  doing,  though  in  the  matter  of  actual 
familiarity  with  Venice  the  husband  and  wife  were 
exactly  on  a  par,  since  neither  had  ever  been  there. 
But  he  had  so  fine  and  retentive  a  memory  that  he 
could  from  photograph-knowledge  only  quite  hold  his 
own  in  these  discussions,  and  indeed  he  sometimes  cor- 
rected her  as  to  the  locality  of  some  Titian  or  Tintoret, 
and  what  was  referred  to  by  Mrs.  Owen  as  being  in 
S.  Giorgio  was  sometimes  allocated  by  the  Canon  to  its 
true  position  in  the  Scuola  di  San  Rocco  or  the  Acca- 
demia,  a  position  which  Baedeker,  when  consulted, 
confirmed.  In  fact,  these  very  fruitful  discussions  on 
the  subject  of  sixteenth  century  art  sometimes  rather 
narrowed  down  to  the  point  as  to  where  a  particular 
picture  was  rather  than  what  were  its  merits  when  it 
was  there. 

But  in  the  matter  of  dates  Canon  Alington  readily 
recognised  the  immense  superiority  of  the  guest's  knowl- 
edge, particularly  in  musical  matters.  She  knew  quite 
unerringly  when  Wagner  was  born,  when  Schubert  died, 
how  old  Mozart  was  when  he  wrote  the  Jupiter  Sym- 
phony, and  in  what  year  "Faust"  was  first  presented. 
Nor  was  her  knowledge  confined  to  these  bones,  so  to 
speak,  of  music.  She  herself  had  composed,  and  her 
compositions  had  been  both  published  and  sung,  so  that 


SHEAVES  113 

on  the  first  page  of  the  Daily  Telegraph  one  was  liable 
to  see  that  "Galahad's  Good-night"  (words  and  music 
to  Gladys  Owen)  Would  be  sung  at  the  Drill  Hall, 
Hastings,  on  tne  i2th.  Her  songs  were  mostly  Written 
in  what  is  known  as  "waltz-time,"  which  when  taken 
andante  is  meltingly  pathetic,  especially  when  there  is  a 
change  to  the  minor  in  the  second  and  middle  part. 
They  were,  with  the  exception  of  "Galahad's  Good- 
night," which  was  markedly  religious  throughout,  based 
rather  on  one  general  plan.  People  met  (long  ago)  in 
the  first  verse  in  an  orchard  or  a  meadow  in  which  bowers 
generally  rhymed  with  flowers,  and  were  very  loving 
and  light-hearted;  tribulations  and  sorrow  (in  the 
minor  key)  overtook  them  in  the  second  verse,  which 
was  slower  and  in  four  time;  while  in  the  third,  to  the 
accompaniment  of  grave  octaves  from  the  left  hand 
and  arpeggios  from  the  right,  and  the  resumption  of 
slow  Waltz-time,  the  tremulous  hope  was  expressed  that 
they  Would  meet  again  "above."  They  Were  equally 
suitable  for  either  male  or  female  voices  (with  the  excep- 
tion again  of  "Galahad's  Good-night"),  for  the  senti- 
ments expressed  were  perfectly  creditable  to  those  of 
either  sex,  and  there  was  always  an  alternative  high 
note  on  the  word  "heaven,"  or  "above,"  or  "love,"  at 
the  end  of  the  third  verse,  where  the  tenor  could  crack 
the  roof  or  burst  himself  if  he  felt  inclined.  Then  the 
arpeggios  ceased,  and  two  or  three  loud  thumps  all  over 
the  piano  denoted  the  accomplishment  of  their  desires. 
Mrs.  Owen  was  tall,  rather  thin,  not  exactly  pretty, 
but,  as  everybody  said,  she  had  a  very  sweet  expression. 
She  had  pale  blue  eyes,  and  even  when  she  Was  talking 
on  the  most  grave  and  serious  subjects  her  mouth  was 
generally  smiling,  which,  no  doubt,  Was  largely  respon- 
sible for  the  sweet  expression.  "When  she  laughed,  which 


ii4  SHEAVES 

she  often  did,  she  quite  closed  her  eyes,  and  sometimes 
she  clapped  her  hands  softly  at  that  which  had  amused 
her.  She  always  dressed  in  pale,  soft  colours,  cut  in  r, 
somewhat  Greek  and  classical  style,  and  wore  as  orna- 
ments a  necklace  of  Greek  silver  coins  and  a  couple  of 
bracelets  composed  of  the  same.  Her  hair,  too,  was 
braided  something  in  the  Greek  manner,  and  the  flower 
or  two  that  she  wore  in  it  was  secured  by  a  Venetian 
ducat  of  the  dogeship  of  one  of  the  Mocenigos.  Through- 
out the  dinner  the  conversation  had  ranged  over  an 
infinite  Variety  of  topics,  deep  calling  unto  deep,  and 
now  toward  the  end,  after  the  Royal  Academy,  the  New 
Gallery,  and  the  Opera  (for  she  had  only  just  returned 
from  a  whole  month  in  London),  the  drama  was  being 
discussed. 

"Yes,  I  adore  the  theatre,"  she  was  saying,  "but 
London  really  has  been  such  a  whirl  that  I  did  not  go 
as  often  as  I  should  have  wished.  But  I  went  to  sec 
''Gambits.'  You  have  seen  'Gambits,'  Mr.  Grainger?" 

"  Oh,  yes!     I  have  been  more  than  once,"  said  he. 

Mrs.  Owen  leaned  forward. 

"Now,  I  wonder  if  we  agree  about  it.  I  thought  it 
was  beautiful,  so  pathetic,  and  so  teaching,  if  I  may 
borrow  one  of  youi  words;  Canon  Alington.  It  showed 
us,  did  it  not,  how  from  misery  is  born  misery,  and  how 
wretchedness  is  the  result  of  our  mistakes." 

She  looked  from  Hugh  to  the  Canon,  whose  upper  lip 
had  begun  to  lengthen  a  little. 

"Oh,  I  am  sure  you  are  going  to  scold  me  for  being  a 
wee  bit  Bohemian!"  she  said. 

"Well,  Hugh  agrees  with  you,"  he  said.  "I  should 
have  to  scold  you  both." 

Mrs.  Owen  looked  down  at  her  plate  a  moment.  "  Yon 
have  seen  it?"  she  asked- 


SHEAVES  115 

"  No;  but  I  have  read  a  review  of  it.  That,  as  I  told 
Hugh,  was  enough." 

Mrs.  Owen  hesitated. 

"  Now  I'm  going  to  be  very  brave,"  she  said.  "I  am 
going  to  ask  you  to  see  it.  There  is  something  in  it,  is 
there  not,  Mr.  Grainger,  which  somehow  redeems  the 
painful  character  of  the  plot.  It  is  not  Wrong-doing 
that  one  condones,  I  think;  it  is  the  dreadful  punishment 
that  one  pities.  Surely  one  may  pity  everyone  who  is 
being  punished,  however  justly." 

Then  Canon  Alington  made  an  enormous  concession. 

"I  do  not  Wish  to  condemn  the  play  unheard,"  he 
said.  "And  When  I  am  in  town  next  I  will  go  to  see  it. 
But  I  don't  think  anybody  but  you  could  have  per- 
suaded me  to!  You  see,  I  hold  very  strong  views  on 
the  question  of  what  are  fit  subjects  for  Art  to  treat  of. 
I  believe  that  the  object  of  all  Art  is  to  raise  our  aspi- 
rations, to  make  us  braver,  better  than  We  Were.  But 
pity,  I  allow,  is  a  Christian  virtue.  I  confess  I  had  not 
thought  of  the  play  in  that  light.  From  what  I  read, 
I  drew  a  very  different  conclusion;  indeed,  it  inspired 
me  with  the  subject  I  am  going  to  talk  about  on  Tuesday 
at  the  Literific." 

Mrs.  Owen  clapped  her  hands,  not  having  heard  what 
Was  known  in  Mannington  as  the  Canon's  "last  port- 
manteau-Word." 

"Literific!"  she  cried.  "How  delightful!  What  a 
sweet  portmanteau.  And  is  the  paper  written?  And 
What  is  its  title?  Is  it  fair  to  ask?" 

"Yes,  Agnes  sent  out  the  cards  this  afternoon,  did  you 
not,  dear?  So  it  is  no  longer  a  secret.  I  call  it:  'The 
True  Test  of  Literary  and  Artistic  Immortality.'  ' 

Mrs.  Owen's  face  beamed  at  the  thought. 

"And  now,"  she  said,  "I  am  going  to  be  very  brave 


n6  SHEAVES 

again.  Might  we,  dear  Canon  Alington,  hear  a  little 
of  it,  just  a  little,  if  it  would  not  tire  you,  after  dinner? 
It  would  be  such  a  treat!" 

Ambrose,  as  has  been  mentioned,  though  he  did  not 
dine,  sat  with  his  parents  during  dinner,  either  reading 
or  drawing  some  simple  object  on  the  table,  or  joining 
in  the  conversation.  As  a  rule  he  went  to  bed  at  dessert- 
time,  having  been  given  two  or  three  strawberries  (which 
were  not  reckoned  among  his  ration),  but  when  Mrs. 
Owen  dined  he  was  allowed  to  sit  up  and  hear  her  sing 
one  song.  Here  he  turned  to  his  father. 

"Oh,  papa,"  he  said,  "may  I  for  a  great  treat  sit  up 
a  little  later  to-night  and  hear  you  read?  I  shall  have 
heard  Mrs.  Owen  sing,  and  have  heard  you  read:  it 
will  make  me  so  happy." 

"You  Wouldn't  understand  it,  my  son,"  said  Canon 
Alington. 

This  was  interpreted  by  Mrs.  Owen  to  mean  that  he 
would  read  to  them,  and  she  clapped  her  hands  again. 

"How  it  pays  to  be  brave!"  she  said.  "Oh,  thank 
you,  dear  Canon  Alington!" 

Ambrose  never  interrupted,  and  he  waited,  looking 
at  his  father  through  his  spectacles  till  she  had  finished. 

"But  I  could  try,  papa,"  he  said;  "and  I'm  sure  I 
should  understand  some  of  it,  because  it's  about  books 
and  pictures  and  music  being  meant  to  make  us  better, 
and  I  understand  that.  And  when  Uncle  Hugh  sings 
or  Mrs.  Owen  sings  I  always  feel  that  I  want  to  be  good. 
So  I  do  understand  some  of  it." 

"And  it  will  make  you  happy?"  asked  his  father. 

"Yes." 

"Well,  as  I  heard  of  a  little  boy  to-day  who  gave  away 
his  strawberries  to  make  a  poor  old  woman  happy,  you 
shall  sit  up  till  half-past  nine/' 


SHEAVES  117 

Hugh  had  given  a  slight  groan  at  Ambrose  s  allusion 
to  the  moral  effects  of  his  singing,  but  even  if  heard,  it 
Was  at  once  forgotten  in  the  boy's  cries  of  joy  who  ran 
galloping  round  the  table  with  very  Mgh  action  of  his 
small  knickerbockered  legs  to  kiss  his  father,  while 
Agnes,  having  told  Mrs.  Owen  in  good,  firm  French,  so 
that  Ambrose  should  not  understand,  the  story  of  the 
little  boy  who  gave  the  old  woman  the  strawberries, 
rose  to  go. 

"You  mustn't  sit  long  over  your  cigarettes,  Dick," 
she  said,  "or  we  shall  never  get  through  with  all  we  are 
going  to  do." 

"No,  we  Won't  be  long,"  he  said;  "there's  a  heavy 
programme  in  front  of  us,  eh,  Mrs.  Owen?" 

"  I'm  sure  your  part  of  it  won't  be  heavy,"  she  said. 

Dick  passed  the  port  to  Hugh  when  the  ladies  had 
left  the  room  with  Ambrose  prancing  on  ahead. 

"A  very  charming,  cultivated  woman,"  he  said. 
"She  knows  Venice  as  I  know  my  parish.  And  I  would 
be  far  from  asserting  off-hand  that  there  was  not 
something  to  be  said  of  her  view  of  'Gambits.'  .  It  was 
an  idea  that  hadn't  occurred  to  me.  You  found  a 
valuable  ally  there,  eh,  Hugh? " 

Hugh  poured  out  a  glass  of  port,  lit  a  cigarette,  and 
then  drank  off  the  port  merely  with  the  air  of  a  thirsty 
man,  neither  tasting  it  nor  thinking  about  it.  That 
sort  of  thing  always  rather  annoyed  the  Canon,  who 
paid  high  prices  for  sound  wine,  though  he  did  not  take 
it  himself. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  that  one  wants  allies  if  one  is  quite 
convinced  of  a  thing,"  he  said.  "In  matters  of  con- 
viction you  are  perfectly  content  to  stand  alone,  if 
nobody  agrees  with  you." 

Hugh  always  spoke  very  quickly,  but  in  the  speed 


u8  SHEAVES 

of  this  his  brother-in-law  thought  he  detected  the  note 
of  impatience. 

"  You  rather  imply  that  you  would  sooner  Mrs.  Owen 
didn't  agree  with  you,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  I  think  I  do.  I'm  sure  her  view  of  the  play 
is  founded  on  reason  which  is  a  faculty  perfectly 
incapable  of  judging  works  of  art." 

"Indeed,  what  do  you  judge  by,  then?" 

"Why,  by  impulse,  by  instinct.  You  don't  want  to 
reason  about  beautiful  things,  or  find  out  why  they  are 
beautiful.  You  want  just  to  enjoy  them,  to  lose  your- 
self in  their  beauty." 

"A  rather  dangerous  view,  surely?" 

"Why  dangerous?"  asked  Hugh. 

The  upper  lip  again  lengthened  itself. 

"Because  it  rather  implies  that  you  exempt  beauty 
from  other  standards,  such  as  those  of  morals  and 
enlightenment.  Of  course,  I  am  sure  you  can't  mean 
that.  Shall  we  go?" 

Hugh  got  up. 

"Do. I  mean  that?"  he  asked.  "I'm  not  sure  that 
I  don't." 

"My  dear  fellow,  of  course  you  can't.  I  should  like 
to  discuss  it  with  you,  but  we  have  received  our  marching 
orders,  have  we  not?  But,  indeed,  the  point  is  rather 
fully  discussed  in  the  paper  that  Mrs.  Owen  insists  on 
my  reading." 

Mrs.  Owen  always  brought  "her  music "  with  her  when 
she  went  out  to  dine,  because  it  was  always  quite  certain 
that  she  would  be  asked  to  sing,  and  she  always  con- 
sented, saying  that  she  did  happen  to  have  brought  a 
song  or  two  which  was  in  the  hall  with  her  cloak.  She 
always  said  hall,  especially  if  it  happened  to  be  a  very 
narrow  passage  with  a  barometer  on  one  side  and  a  hat 


SHEAVES  119 

rack  on  the  other  and  a  rich  smell  of  cooking  coming 
from  kitchen  stairs  at  the  end.  For  she  was  incapable 
of  sarcasm,  and  thus  if  the  hall  happened  to  be  an  artery 
of  this  description,  it  merely  made  her  hosts  think  that 
the  "entry  "  was  larger  than  they  hc~d  supposed.  Canon 
Alington,  however,  in  his  commodious  vicarage  had  a 
hall,  and  almost  immediately  after  joining  the  ladies 
in  the  drawing-room  he,  with  Ambrose  again  prancing 
in  front  of  him,  Went  to  fetch  "the  music  "in.  Ambrose 
asked  to  be  allowed  to  carry  it,  and  this  boon  was  granted 
him.  Mrs  Owen  always  played  her  own  accompani- 
ments, and  Ambrose,  who  was  full  of  treats  to-night, 
turned  over  for  her,  being  already  able  to  follow  music 
if  it  did  not  go  too  fast,  which  Mrs.  Owen's  songs  did  not. 
But  at  the  end  of  this  particular  combination  of  orchards, 
tribulation  and  heaven  above,  he  was  terribly  torn  in 
half,  for  on  the  one  hand  Mrs.  Owen  Was  perfectly  willing 
to  sing  again,  and  on  the  other  bedtime  Was  inexorably 
fixed  for  half-past  nine,  so  that  the  longer  Mrs.  Owen 
sang  the  less  he  would  hear  of  his  father's  paper  for  the 
Literific.  So  with  the  simplicity  of  childhood  he  settled 
that  "mamma  should  choose,"  and  mamma,  as  she 
could  hardly  fail  to  do,  chose  another  song  first. 

There  was  no  time  for  Hugh  to  sing  after  this,  if  the 
tests  of  immortality  in  literature  and  art  were  to  be 
really  inquired  into,  and,  indeed,  he  had  with  some 
adroitness  protested  that  it  would  be  too  hard  to  make 
him  sing  after  Mrs.  Owen,  feeling  quite  sure  that  no 
sarcastic  intention  could  possibly  be  imputed  to  him, 
since  both  his  sister  and  Dick  considered  that  Mrs. 
Owen  sang  with  more  expression  than  anyone  they  had 
ever  heard,  professional  or  amateur.  Thus  there  was 
a  full  half-hour  of  reading  for  Ambrose  before  half-past 
nine  sounded,  and  a  full  half-hour  of  reading  for  the  rest 


lac  SHEAVES 

of  them  afterwards,  for  the  author's  suggestion  that  he 
should  leave  out  or  abridge  his  work  was  strongly 
deprecated  by  Mrs.  Owen  if  he  was  quite  sure  it  did  not 
hurt  his  throat,  and  he  felt  perfectly  certain  it  did  not. 

Hugh  went  up  to  bed  that  night  rather  early,  though, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  felt  particularly  wakeful,  for  he 
wanted,  somewhere  deep  down  inside  him,  to  get  away 
alone,  to  lie  on  his  bed  and  think,  or,  better  still — a 
plan  which  he  put  into  operation — to  get  behind  the 
curtains  of  his  window  and  lean  out  into  the  night.  He 
wanted  to  be  alone,  but  to  be  in  the  presence  of  the  very 
simple  things  of  the  world,  the  night,  the  large  silent 
sky,  the  things  that  grew  unconsciously  and  did  not 
improve  themselves  or  anyone  else,  and,  he  added  rather 
viciously  to  himself,  did  not  sing.  He  had  passed  his 
evening  with  perfectly  sincere  and  unaffected  people 
(with  the  exception  of  Ambrose,  for  with  the  best  will 
in  the  world  he  could  not  believe  that  Ambrose  really 
liked  giving  his  strawberries  to  an  old  woman,  and  even 
if  he  did,  a  child  had  no  right  to  be  unselfish  and  kind 
at  that  age,  and  ought  to  be  smacked  for  it),  yet  in  spite 
of  their  sincerity  he  felt  that  the  whole  evening  had  been 
unreal.  He  was  sure  that  Mrs.  Owen  was  genuine 
in  her  musical  tastes,  but  it  was  not  real  music  that  she 
liked,  but  false  sentiment.  He  was  sure  that  his  brother- 
in-law  was  desperately  in  earnest  on  the  true  tests  of 
immortality  in  art,  but  what  he  really  liked  was  writing 
about  it.  He  was  certain  that  Agnes  was  genuinely 
interested  in  parish  work,  true  tests  of  immortality, 
music  and  all  the  topics  of  the  evening,  but  not  of  her 
own  self,  only  because  they  were  of  interest  to  her 
husband.  All  the  sincerity,  he  felt,  was  second-hand; 
they  none  of  them  cared  for  things  quite  simply  and 
passionately  with  the  mere  love  of  life  for  the  things  of  life. 


SHEAVES  121 

There  had  been,  too,  whole  lumps  of  knowledge  flying 
about  all  evening  in  every  direction:  they  had  all  kept 
up  a  perfect  fusillade  of  facts;  but  what  of  wisdom? 
Where  should  wisdom  be  found?  He  had  once  com- 
pared his  brother-in-law's  mind  to  a  rich  sort  of  cake, 
that  consists  entirely  of  other  things — you  came  upon 
an  almond  one  moment,  a  raisin  the  next,  a  piece  of 
spice,  or  sometimes  a  large  hard  stone.  These  Were  all 
(except  the  stone)  proper  ingredients  for  making  cake, 
but,  somehow,  there  wasn't  any  cake:  it  was  all  ingredi- 
ents. There  Was  his  golf,  his  gardening,  his  literary 
abilities,  his  fragments  of  rock  from  Nazareth,  his 
mottoes,  his  knowledge  of  the  galleries  of  Venice,  but 
Where  was  It,  the  man,  the  personality,  the  deeps? 
And  all  the  time  he  was  aware  that  both  Agnes  and 
Dick  felt  that  he  himself  Wanted  deepening,  and  very 
likely  Mrs.  Owen  and  Ambrose  thought  so,  too.  And 
he  felt  himself  injured  and  inflamed  at  the  thought,  so 
that  he  was  moved  to  say  out  loud :  "Thank  God,  I  don't 
want  any  of  your  deepening,  not  at  any  price."  As 
likely  as  not  Dick  and  his  sister  were  talking  over  the 
evening  now,  feeling,  dear,  good  souls!  that  amusement 
had  been  combined  with  instruction,  and  that  sun  of 
culture  had  shone  on  the  scene  without  intermission. 

Hugh  felt  rather  better  when  he  had  announced  to  the 
night  that  he  did  not  wish  to  be  subjected  to  this  process 
of  deepening,  and  leaned  further  out  into  the  soft  dark- 
ness. The  moon  Was  not  yet  risen,  but  behind  the  gray 
square  Norman  tower  of  the  church  that  rose  on  the 
right  the  sky  Was  dove-coloured  and  the  stars  burned 
with  a  half-quenched  light,  showing  that  moon-rise 
would  not  be  long  delayed.  Just  below  his  windows 
stretched  the  herbaceous  bed  that  led  down  each  side 
of  the  road  to  the  gate,  and  in  the  deep  dusk  of  this 


122  SHEAVES 

summer  night  it  was  only  white  flowers  like  the  tobacco- 
plant  and  the  Madonna  lily  that  could  be  distinguished 
in  the  fragrant  huddle  of  the  summer.  A  little  breeze 
stirred  there  occasionally,  making  the  purple  clematis 
that  climbed  up  on  each  side  of  his  window  tremble  and 
vibrate,  and  like  wavelets  lisping  on  the  edge  of  a  calm 
sea  it  whispered  and  bore  to  him  the  veiled  odours  of 
the  beds  and  the  damp  smell  of  the  dew-drenched  lawn. 
Beyond  lay  the  Water-meadows  of  the  Kennet,  with 
wisps  and  streamers  of  white  mist  lying  here  and  there 
like  gauzy  raiment  of  the  fairies  hung  out  to  dry,  while 
down  the  centre  wandered  the  steel-coloured  stream; 
and  again,  but  with  diminished  viciousness,  Hugh 
thought  to  himself  that  he  was  glad  that  he  knew  nothing 
whatever  about  the  formation  of  dew  or  the  cooling  that 
made  the  moisture  of  the  atmosphere  condense.  His 
own  enjoyment  and  appreciation  of  it,  his  mental  liken- 
ing it  to  fairy  raiment  Was  quite  enough  for  him,  nor  did 
he  believe  he  would  be  deeper  if  he  knew  about  its  for- 
mation. To  the  left  stood  the  elms  of  the  hedgerow, 
black  blots  against  the  sky,  and  outlined  with  stars, 
while  glimmering  here  and  there  against  the  black  hill- 
side he  caught  glimpses  of  the  white  road  along  which 
he  had  walked  that  morning.  Far  away,  too,  in  another 
grove  of  trees  there  glimmered  a  light  or  two  from  the 
windows  of  the  house  he  had  visited  that  morning. 

He  had  been  conscious  all  day  that  somewhere  deep 
inside  him,  far  below  the  superficial  perceptions  and 
interests  that  had  gone  to  make  up  the  ordinary  mental 
life  of  the  others,  a  current  Was  moving  slowly  and 
irresistibly  in  one  direction.  He  knew,  too,  that  it  called 
to  him  to  come  down  out  of  the  sunlight  and  surface  of 
things,  and  though  he  longed  to  obey  this  summons 
which  all  the  time  he  knew  he  could  not  resist,  yet  he 


SHEAVES  123 

feared  it,  with  the  awe  that  hangs  about  the  unknown. 
Ever  since  that  evening  of  June  a  month  ago,  when  he 
had  come  into  the  lit  tent  where  dinner  was  in  progress 
on  the  lawn  at  Cookham,  the  call  of  the  deep  had  been 
in  his  ears,  very  softly  at  first  and  very  distantly,  but 
gradually  getting  more  insistent,  till  the  Whole  air  by 
now  had  become  thick  with  it.  All  this  month,  too, 
another  hidden  river  had  been  flowing  within  him — his 
Worship,  for  it  was  no  less  than  that,  for  the  beautiful 
unknown  mind  which  had  spoken  to  him  so  often  and 
so  intimately  across  the  footlights.  This  morning  those 
two  rivers  had  met  and  joined;  they  flowed  down 
mingled  together  now,  and  the  two  voices  were  one. 
The  river  had  its  name  too;  it  was  River  Edith. 

And  with  that,  swift  as  a  stone  falls  through  the 
divided  air,  he  took  the  plunge  that  had  been  so  long 
delayed,  down  from  the  surface  of  everyday  happenings, 
from  the  comedies  and  the  pleasant  sunny  ways  of  life, 
into  the  depths  and  well-springs  of  being,  surrendering 
himself  and  all  he  was  or  had,  and  by  the  very  complete- 
ness of  surrender  unfolding  the  banner  of  the  conqueror. 

All  this,  this  leap  into  the  infinite,  was  measured  in 
the  world  of  time  but  by  one  deep-drawn  breath  and 
drunk  in  with  the  full  inspiration  of  the  singer,  head 
back  so  that  song  could  come  from  the  open  throat,  and 
next  moment  whispered  below  his  breath,  yet  with  each 
note  round  and  shining  as  a  pearl,  came  the  first  line  of 
the  Schumann  song  he  had  sung  to  her  and  Peggy  on 
that  evening  by  the  riverside.  But  now  he  sang  it 
alone,  but  he  sang  it  to  her;  wherever  she  was,  he  was 
there  too,  his  spirit  enfolded  and  embraced  hers,  He 
sang  no  more  than  that  first  line;  it  was  all  there  on  the 
birthday  of  his  life. 

And  then,  swift  as  the  plunge  itself,  which  had  been 


124  SHEAVES 

a  spiritual  thing,  there  rushed  in  (for  the  mind  is  mated 
with  the  spirit  and  acts  but  infinitesimally  less  quickly) 
the  stubborn  actuality,  and  he  was  heaved  back  into 
the  confines  of  things  probable  and  real,  and  the  humility, 
the  knowledge  of  utter  unworthiness  that  always  goes 
hand  in  hand  with  the  winged  irresistible  god  came  to  him. 
How  had  he  ever  allowed  himself  to  imagine,  though 
only  for  this  one  second  or  two,  that  she  could  ever  look 
at  him  presenting  himself  in  the  capacity  ot  lover  ?  She 
would  not  laugh  at  him,  for  she  was  too  kind  for  that, 
but  how  gently  her  heart  would  pity  him,  and  how  that 
pity  would  hurt!  How  kindly  and  with  what  real 
regret — for  he  could  assert  that  they  were  friends,  which 
is  a  big  word — would  she  look  at  him  out  of  those  wonder- 
ful eyes;  how  softly,  how  tremulously  perhaps  for  she 
was  so  kind,  would  her  mouth  say  the  inevitable  word! 
How  gently  would  she  reject  him!  And  then — some- 
how he  felt  sure  she  would  not  find  it  necessary  to  speak 
those  unspeakable  banalities  about  hoping  that  they 
would  still  remain  great  friends.  Her  wisdom  would 
do  better  than  that.  Yet  what  could  it  do?  She 
would  know. 

But  love  never  acquiesces  long  in  that  sort  of  surren- 
der; its  true  surrender  is  the  surrender  he  had  felt  before, 
when  above  his  head  as  he  gave  up  his  sword  floated 
the  scarlet  and  gold  of  the  triumphant  banner.  Again, 
as  he  looked  out  across  the  water-meadows  hung  with 
the  skeins  and  wisps  of  mist,  to  where  a  light  or  two 
still  burned  very  small  and  distantly  in  the  house  among 
the  trees,  the  imperiousness  of  love  that  admits  no  defeat, 
and  in  thought  breaks  any  obstacle  or  impossibility 
away  as  a  heedless  foot  breaks  away  the  gossamer  webs 
that  are  woven  in  the  dark  between  stems  of  meadow 
grass,  invaded  and  occupied  him.  And,  had  he  but 


SHEAVES  125 

known  it,  even  then  by  a  window  the  light  of  which  had 
been  that  moment  quenched  there  stood  another  also 
looking  out  into  the  velvet  dusk  of  the  night  across 
those  same  meadows  between  them  toward  the  house 
from  which  he  looked.  And,  as  she  let  the  blind  fall 
again  over  the  open  sash,  she  said  below  her  breath  that 
first  line  of  song  which  he  had  Whispered  to  the  night 
and  her. 

The  moon  by  now  had  risen  and  the  shadow  of  the 
window-bars  lay  black  on  the  blind  she  had  drawn  down. 
Outside  the  air  Was  very  still,  but  every  now  and  then 
the  little  breeze  that  had  stirred  among  the  flowers 
in  the  garden  at  St.  Olaf's  moved  here  also,  and  tapped 
with  the  Wooden  roller  of  the  blind  against  the  window- 
frame  as  the  soft  leaden-footed  hours  passed.  But 
though  she  lay  without  closing  her  eyes  until  the  dawn 
began  to  lift  tired  eyelids  in  the  east,  she  was  conscious 
of  none  of  the  tedium  and  fret  that  often  goes  with 
watchfulness.  She  had  not  the  wish  to  sleep  even,  the 
desire  for  it  was  as  remote  from  her  as  the  power.  She 
lay  there  thinking  intently.  She  wanted  first  of  all  to 
find  out  and  lay  before  herself  as  before  the  tribunal 
of  her  mind  exactly  what  had  happened. 

It  was  so  few  weeks  ago  that  she  had  said  to  Peggy 
that  she  did  not  expect  very  much  from  life,  though  she 
believed  that  many  pleasant  things  Would  be  hers,  and 
that  little  joys  and  occupations  Would  keep  her  busy 
and  cheerful.  And  when  she  had  said  that  it  Was  abso- 
lutely true.  But  to-day  she  knew  it  was  true  no  longer. 
All  that  had  then  seemed  so  cheerful  and  bright  was  at 
this  moment  as  gray  as  ash  to  her;  indoors,  perhaps, 
it  would  still  be  possible  to  see  that  fire  lived  and  burned 
in  those  embers,  but  they  Were  now  as  if  the  sun  had 
shone  on  them,  dimming  and  rendering  invisible  in  that 


126  SHEAVES 

glorious  blaze  the  lesser  illumination  of  the  sticks  and 
coals.  With  what  honesty,  too,  and  complete  straight- 
forwardness of  purpose  she  had  come  down  to  settle 
here  in  Mannington,  to  absorb  herself,  in  pursuance  of 
the  future  she  had  sketched  out  to  Peggy,  in  the  quiet 
occupations  with  which  her  garden  and  the  little  local 
interests  of  the  place  would  supply  her,  while  she 
pushed  forward  over  the  gray  sea  of  elderly  years.  And 
then,  without  warning  almost,  so  swift  had  been  its 
coming,  the  bomb  had  exploded,  so  to  speal:,  in  the 
middle  of  her  flower-beds.  She  loved  Hugh,  no  longer 
with  the  pale  snowdrop  love  of  girls,  but  with  the  full 
colour  and  glory  of  her  mature  womanhood.  So  much 
was  certain. 

She  believed  as  she  lay  there,  hearing  the  tapping 
blind,  seeing  the  darkness-shrouded  shapes  of  the  things 
in  her  room,  that  more  than  this  was  certain.  Vivid, 
full  of  moods  and  brightnesses  as  he  was,  she  had  never 
seen  on  his  face  until  to-day  the  look  that  was  there  when 
she  told  him  who  that  was  for  whom  he  had  been  seeking 
so  diligently,  whose  was  the  mind  that  had  conceived 
and  the  hand  that  wrote  the  work  which  had  inspired 
him  with  so  heartfelt  a  sympathy  and  admiration.  All 
the  last  month  they  had  been  advancing  daily  in  intimacy 
and  friendliness,  but  there  was  something  in  the  blank 
silence  with  which  he  received  her  announcement,  some- 
thing in  his  quiet  salute  of  the  hand  that  had  written 
"Gambits,"  something  in  the  boyish  shout  of  exultation 
with  which  he  had  thrown  up  his  hat  into  the  air,  that 
told  her  that  it  was  as  if  his  soul  had  leaped  some  stream 
or  barrier  across  which  up  till  now  they  had  done  no 
more  than  shake  friendly  hands,  and  that  they  stood 
together  now,  not  friends  any  longer,  but  lovers.  In 
the  stillness  and  loneliness  of  night,  when  above  all  other 


SHEAVES  127 

times  a  woman  is  honest  with  herself,  neither  exaggera- 
ting nor  extenuating,  but  setting  down  quietly  and 
firmly  what  she  believes,  Edith  believed  that.  She 
could  not  and  did  not  attempt  to  reason  her  way  to  the 
conclusion,  any  more  than  a  bird  measures  the  distance 
of  the  branch  on  which  her  nest  is  built  or  calculates 
the  speed  of  flight  when  she  would  drop  there.  She 
just  lights  there,  without  calculation,  by  the  nest-side, 
where  love  "keeping  her  feet"  has  guided  her. 

Again,  for  a  little  space,  as  she  turned  in  her  cool 
rustling  bed,  she  detached  these  thoughts  from  herself 
and  but  listened  to  the  tapping  of  the  blind  against  her 
window.  But  it  was  for  few  seconds  that  that  detach- 
ment was  possible,  for  all  her  warm  woman's  heart, 
tender  and  kind  and  starving  to  give  and  to  receive  this 
love  which  was  its  appointed,  God-ordained  food,  beat 
upon  her  and  shook  her  into  life  again.  It  was  no 
wind  that  tapped  there;  it  was  he  who  tapped  at  her 
heart  and  had  been  admitted  with  doors  flung  back 
and  kingly  Welcome.  And,  half  laughing  to  herself, 
laughter  that  comes  not  out  of  the  lips  or  of  the 
amused  brain,  but  of  the  deep  bubbling  with  the  well- 
spring  of  the  heart,  "Come  in,  Hughie,  come  in!" 
she  whispered,  and  looked  toward  the  window,  knowing 
that  it  Was  but  her  imagination  that  made  her 
speak,  yet  feeling  it  would  not  be  strange  if  she  saw 
there,  across  the  shadow  of  the  window-bars,  the  shadow 
of  his  head.  And  what  then?  She  would  go  across  to 
the  window,  not  frightened,  knowing  it  was  he,  and  he 
would  say  the  Words  that  were  wine  to  her,  and  she  would 
give  him  wine  for  his  wine. 

Then  suddenly  the  character  and  significance  of  the 
tapping  blind  changed  altogether,  and  she  sat  up  in 
her  bed,  frightened  at  its  new  message.  It  warned  her, 


128  SHEAVES 

and  warned  her  with  terrible  distinctness.  He  was  so 
young,  it  told  her,  while  for  her  all  youth  Was  gone. 
There  might  be  one  or  two  bright  warm  November  days 
for  her,  a  week  perhaps  of  Indian  summer,  but  after 
that,  chill  and  the  fogs  of  November  and  its  frosts;  she 
would  be  no  match  for  that  dear  spirit  of  spring  that 
had  lost  its  way  and  come  here  by  mistake,  making  it 
shiver,  making  it  long  to  escape.  It  would  be  unable 
to  see  below  the  rime  and  the  fog;  it  would  judge,  as 
all  youth  did,  by  appearance,  by  the  flush  of  smooth 
cheeks,  by  the  brightness  of  the  eye  in  its  unwrinkled 
frame,  by  the  gloss  of  abundant  hair,  by  laughter  and 
the  indefatigable  joy  of  day  and  night;  and  since  these 
things  would  be  soon  missing  to  her,  it  would  think  that 
the  surface  rime  pierced  below,  that  the  depths  were 
hard  with  the  iron  of  age,  that  the  heart  was  silvered 
with  frost  even  as  the  head  was  silvered. 

She  got  quickly  out  of  bed  and  lit  her  candles,  for  this 
was  nightmare,  and  placing  them  one  on  each  side  of 
her  looking-glass,  looked  long  at  herself,  critically  and 
honestly.  And  as  she  looked  courage  and  hope  came 
back  to  her.  Where  were  the  wrinkles  she  had  feared, 
or  whers  the  frosted  hair?  Thick  and  black  and 
untouched  by  white  it  lay  round  her  head,  and  her  face 
was  smooth  and  unpitted  by  the  years  that  had  gone, 
and  her  eyes  were  bright  with  the  dawn  of  the  fulfilment 
of  her  womanhood,  which  she  had  missed  so  long,  but 
was  now  streaking  her  heaven  in  lines  of  gold  and  crim- 
son, and  flush  of  delicate  green,  even  as  outside  across 
the  water-meadows  and  behind  the  gray  tower  of  St. 
Olaf's  dawn  was  coming  swiftly.  Surely  it  had  been 
but  for  a  moment  that  night  had  been  heavy,  and  on  the 
wings  of  the  morning  came  joy. 

Canon  Alington,  as  his  wife  often  told  him,  had  a  great 


SHEAVES  129 

deal  of  tact,  and  how  prodigious  was  the  amount  with 
which  Nature  had  endowed  him  may  be  gathered  from 
the  fact  that  he  never  asked  any  of  the  guests  who 
might  happen  to  be  staying  at  St.  Olaf's  over  a  Sunday 
whether  or  no  they  Were  going  to  church.  He  was, 
such  was  his  liberal  doctrine,  primarily  their  host,  and 
as  such  was  bound  to  give  them  religious  as  well  as  all 
other  liberties,  and  consequently  when  Hugh  at  about 
ten  minutes  to  eleven  came  through  the  hall,  where 
Ambrose  was  prancing  about  in  a  slightly  subdued  and 
Sabbatical  manner  with  a  hymn-book  and  prayer-book 
and  a  Bible  in  his  hand,  and  a  threepenny  bit  in  his 
pocket,  and  met  Canon  Alington  just  coming  out  of  his 
study  on  his  way  to  church,  Hugh's  appearance  in  gray 
flannels  and  a  straw  hat  roused  no  comment  of  dis- 
approbation. Indeed,  Canon  Alington  said,  "It  will 
be  cool  in  the  garden."  But  Ambrose's  tact  was  not 
equal  to  his  father's.  He  looked  up  at  Hugh  with  the 
light  shining  on  his  spectacles. 

"Aren't  you  coming  to  church,  Uncle  Hugh?"  he 
asked. 

"No,  not  this  morning." 

"Aren't  you  well,  Uncle  Hugh?  I'm  so  sorry!  Shall 
I  stop  behind,  as  mamma  does  when  I'm  not  well, 
and  read  the  psalms  and  lessons  to  you?  Or  shall 
I  go  to  church  and  tell  you  about  the  sermon  after- 
ward?" 

"Yes,  thanks  awfully,  old  boy !  "  said  Hugh;  "  I  think 
that  would  be  the  best  plan.  Now  run  after  your  father, 
or  else  you  will  be  late." 

Canon  Alington  had  purposely  walked  on  at  the  begin- 
ning of  this  colloquy,  and  into  his  head  there  came  the 
words  "a  little  child  shall  lead  them."  He  was  a  trifle 
disconcerted  when  he  found  that  his  little  child  was  not 


i3o  SHEAVES 

leading  anybody,    until   Ambrose   explained    the    plan 
about  the  sermon. 

But  there  was  for  Hugh  no  coolness  of  the  garden, 
not,  at  any  rate,  of  this  garden,  and  he  only  waited 
for  the  low  thunder  of  the  organ  to  come  booming  out 
from  the  open  church  door,  to  set  out,  at  a  pace  most 
unsuited  to  this  hot  morning,  along  the  road  up  which 
he  had  gone  at  much  about  the  same  time  yesterday. 
All  the  doubts  and  questioning  of  the  evening  before 
were  gone,  or  if  not  gone  were  invisible  in  the  flame  that 
consumed  them,  were  perhaps  but  the  sticks  and  fuel 
that  contributed  to  the  brightness  of  its  burning.  He 
had  to  declare  to  her  his  love;  that  was  his  part,  and 
nothing  else  was  his  part.  He  had  no  spare  emotion 
with  which  to  feel  nervous  or  afraid;  all  he  felt  or  was, 
it  seemed  to  him,  was  caught  up  into  the  burning,  into 
the  beacon  that  leaped  in  flame  within  him.  He  did 
not  know  whether  the  road  seemed  long  or  short,  or  the 
morning  hot  or  cold ;  the  minor  consciousness  of  life  had 
no  existence  for  him  just  then.  In  a  few  minutes  he 
would  be  with  the  reality  of  life,  the  best  was  no  more 
than  shadow.  And  once  again  he  was  told  she  was  in 
the  garden,  and  once  again,  hatless,  he  followed  the 
butler  out. 

She  saw  and  knew;  it  was  the  face  of  her  lover  that 
looked  at  her  dumbly,  eagerly,  and  both  waited,  for  he 
had  but  the  one  word  to  say  to  her,  till  they  were  alone. 
Then  he  came  a  step  closer  to  her,  and  his  eyes  were 
like  hot  coals. 

"MeineSeele,  mein  Herz,"  he  said,  still  very  quietly, 
still  without  putting  out  his  hand  even  to  her. 

And  but  for  those  burning  eyes,  and  his  mouth  that 
trembled  a  little,  you  would  have  said  that  nothing 


SHEAVES  131 

momentous,  nothing  that  concerned  life  and  death  and 
the  deeps  of  the  human  soul,  was  passing  on  that 
quiet,  sunny  terrace. 

But  how  well  she  knew  it,  and  how  it  seemed  to  her 
that  her  heart  must  take  wings  and  fly  to  him.  Yet 
even  as  it  poised,  fluttering,  in  act  to  go,  all  the  warn- 
ings of  the  tapping  window  blind  last  night  came  into 
her  mind.  He  was  so  young,  and  the  years  that  would 
make  her  old  would  but  be  adding  strength  and  vigour 
to  his  manhood.  And  she  put  up  her  hand,  as  if  to  keep 
him  off. 

"No,  no,"  she  said.  "You  don't  mean  it,  Hugh,  you 
don't  consider — you  don't  know." 

"  It  is  all  I  know,"  he  said. 

There  Was  a  moment's  absolute  silence;  he  had  said 
all  that  he  had  come  to  say,  but  from  her  answer  he 
had  to  say  more. 

"Do  you  send  me  away?"  he  asked. 

She  turned  from  him,  and  looked  out  across  the  blue 
haze  of  heat  that  hung  on  the  meadows. 

"Ah,  no,  not  that!  "  she  half  moaned  to  herself. 

"What  then?"  said  he  quietly. 

Then  she  turned  to  him  again,  and  in  her  eyes  no  less 
than  in  his  shone  the  authentic  fire.  Whatever  trouble 
Was  there,  whatever  perplexity,  it  paled  in  the  bright- 
ness of  that  shining. 

"Just  this,  dear  Hugh,"  she  said — "that  I  ask  you — 
oh,  how  feeble  it  seems! — I  ask  you  to  give  me  a  little 
time,  to  let  me  think  and  determine.  It  is  all  so  new 
and  strange,  and — and  so  wonderful.  I  ask  you  to  go 
away  now,  but  not  in  the  Way  you  meant.  Thank  you 
for  your  love  for  me — it  is  precious,  so  precious!  But 
I  had  never  thought  of  it,  never  guessed  it  till  yesterday." 

Hugh's   mouth    had    suddenly    gone    quite    dry.     He 


i32  SHEAVES 

tried  to  moisten  his  lips  to  speak,  but  could  not,  and  it 
was  but  a  whisper  that  came. 

"You  love  me?"  he  asked. 

"Ah!  you  mustn't  ask  me  any  more  now.  I  have  had 
enough.  I — there,  go,  dear.  I  want — 

And  she  threw  herself  down  on  the  garden  bench  where 
they  had  sat  yesterday  and  burst  into  a  passion  of 
sobbing. 


CHAPTER  VII 

PEGGY  had  brought  her  season  to  an  end  on  the  same 
day  on  which  Hugh  had  gone  down  to  St.  Olaf's, 
and  had  retired  with  the  sense  of  a  child  home  from  its 
holidays  to  spend  a  whole  week  with  the  children  at 
Cookham,  before  taking  her  husband  out  to  Marienbad 
for  three  weeks'  cure.  She  had  taken  Arthur  Crowfoot 
down  with  her  for  the  Sunday,  but  he  did  so  much  deep 
breathing  (for  in  the  cycle  of  things  that  had  come  up 
again)  and  wanted  such  very  extraordinary  things  to 
eat  that  he. was  as  bad  as  a  party  in  the  house.  Even 
that,  though  she  had  come  down  in  order  to  do  nothing, 
she  would  not  have  minded,  had  he  not  insisted  on 
talking  quite  continuously  about  the  impossibility  of 
preserving  even  the  semblance  of  decent  health  if  your 
diet  comprised  anything  outside  nuts,  cheese,  and  brown 
bread.  Indeed,  on  Sunday  evening,  when  he  had  sent 
for  a  pair  of  goloshes  to  put  over  his  shoes,  for  they  were 
dining  in  the  tent,  and  the  second  thickest  of  his  Angora 
Wool  rugs  to  put  over  his  knees,  she  clapped  her  hands 
in  his  face. 

"You  are  getting  tiresome,  Arthur,"  she  said,  "and 
as  a  friend  I  warn  you.  Nobody  cares  about  your  Waste 
products  or  nuts,  nor  whether  you  catch  cold;  but  they 
care  very  much  whether  you  bore  them  or  not.  People 
always  consider  a  bore  a  waste  product." 

Arthur  pushed  back  his  rather  thin  and  scanty  hair, 
for  the  sake  of  which  he  never  Wore  a  hat.  This  clapping 
of  Peggy's  hands  in  his  face  had  considerably  startled 
him, 

133 


134  SHEAVES 

"How  violent  you  are!"  he  said,  "and  how  unfair! 
I  think  it  is  one's  duty  to  keep  oneself  as  well  as  possible." 

"Yes,  I  daresay  it  is,"  said  she;  "but  it  is  no  part  of 
your  duty  to  tell  me  about  it.  I  am  charmed  that  you 
feel  well,  and  you  may  eat  anything  you  choose,  only  I 
don't  want  to  know  about  it.  Personally  I  eat  some- 
what large  quantities  of  meat,  and  feel  extremely  well, 
but  I  don't  tell  everybody  about  it.  I  dare  say  also 
it's  your  duty  to  be  kind  and  thoughtful,  but  that 
would  form  a  very  poor  subject  of  conversation!" 

Arthur  Crowfoot's  goloshes  and  second  thickest  rug  had 
come  by  .this  time,  and  this  probably  restored  any  loss  of 
equanimity  that  Peggy's  criticisms  could  have  produced. 

"Well,  let  us  talk  about  somebody  else's  virtues," 
he  said. 

"Mine,"  suggested  Toby,  who  had  not  yet  spoken, 
from  the  other  side  of  the  table. 

"  Your  virtues  are  that  you  are  going  off  to  Marien- 
bad  on  Thursday,  like  a  good  boy,"  said  Peggy. 

"I  know  I  am.  What  a  filthy  hole!  Are  you  sure 
you'll  come,  Peggy?" 

"Quite  certain,  otherwise  you  will  eat  all  the  things 
you  shouldn't,  and  drink  none  of  the  things  you  should, 
and  lie  in  bed  instead  of  getting  up  at  six,  and  sit  up 
instead  of  going  to  bed  at  ten! " 

Toby  groaned  slightly,  and  made  a  sign  to  a  servant 
that  he  wanted  more  chocolate  souffle^. 

"Let  me  eat  and  drink,  for  to-morrow  I  go  to  Marien- 
bad,"  he  said.  "Peggy,  if  we  are  going,  let's  go  to- 
morrow, and  get  it  over  soon." 

"I  can't;  I  promised  to  go  to  the  fiftieth  performance 
of  'Gambits'  with  Hugh  on  Wednesday." 

Arthur  Crowfoot  drew  the  rug  a  little  closer  over  his 
knees. 


SHEAVES  135 

"Talk  of  waste  products,"  he  said,  "or  of  my  talking 
of  them!  Why,  the  last  time  I  saw  Hugh  he  quoted 
me  large  chunks  of  'Gambits.'  I  can't  think  of  any- 
thing more  intensely  Waste  product  than  that,  especially 
if  one  hasn't  seen  the  play!" 

"But  won't  the  forty-ninth  performance  do?"  asked 
Toby. 

"No,  because  the  author,  Andrew  Robb,  whom  no- 
body knows  who  he  is,  if  you  will  excuse  the  grammar, 
is  going  to  appear  that  night,"  said  Peggy,  "and  we 
are  all  dying  to  see  him." 

Arthur  gave  a  short  and  scornful  laugh. 

"Why,  it's  clearly  Hugh,"  he  said.     "Will  you  bet?" 

"Yes,"  said  Peggy  precipitately. 

Then  she  considered  the  case. 

"No,  I  won't,"  she  said,  "because  I  know  it  is  not 
Hugh.  Oh,  dear!  here's  a  telegram." 

A  servant  handed  it  to  her,  and  she  tore  it  open  in 
that  silence  which  always  takes  possession  of  a  small 
party  when  a  telegram  is  opened,  even  when  addressed 
to  a  person  like  Peggy,  with  whom  correspondence  was 
chiefly  conducted  by  such  means. 

"Edith,"  she  announced.  "She  wants  to  come  down 
here  to-morrow  for  the  night  to  see  me  particularly, 
and  Wants  no  reply  unless  not.  What  a  curious  parsi- 
mony of  words  people  have  over  telegrams.  No  answer," 
she  said  to  the  man. 

"Where  is  she?"  asked  Toby. 

"Down  at  Mannington;  I  heard  from  her  yesterday. 
She  said  she  meant  to  stop  there  for  months  and  not  stir." 

"Something  at  Mannington  has  stirred  her,"  remarked 
Mr.  Crowfoot.  "That  is  the  sort  of  thing  that  always 
happens.  One  goes  up  to  town  and  is  fearfully  busy 
all  the  Week,  and  nothing  happens,  and  then  goes  into 


136  SHEAVES 

the  country  for  the  week-end  and  finds  nothing  to  eat 
except  beef  and — I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  added. 

Toby  had  finished  his  second  helping  of  souffle'e,  re- 
fused dessert,  and  drank  a  glass  of  strictly  forbidden  port. 

"I  see  Hugh  Grainger  will  sing  at  the  opera  next 
year,"  he  said;  "it  was  announced  in  the  Daily 
Something." 

Peggy,  on  Whose  tongue  remonstrance  with  regard  to 
the  port  was  rising,  threw  off  at  this. 

"What!"  she  said.  "Hugh  is  going  to  sing?  Why, 
only  a  few  weeks  ago  he  told  me  that  he  had  made  up 
his  mind  not  to!" 

"Ah,  but  Hugh  is  one  of  those  people  to  whom  an 
enormous  number  of  things  happen  in  a  few  weeks," 
said  he. 

For  one  moment  Peggy  felt  a  little  hurt  that  Hugh 
had  not  told  her.  She  hated  that  public  papers  should 
be  the  means  of  communication  between  herself  and  her 
friends.  But  on  the  instant  she  smothered  her  resent- 
ment. 

"That  is  splendid  news!  "  she  said.  "I  must  remem- 
ber to  tell  Edith.  Hugh  told  us  that  the  syndicate 
had  approached  him,  and  she  was  so  frantic  at  the  idea 
of  his  refusal.  I  wonder  what  has  made  him  change 
his  mind." 

Then  she  recollected  something. 

"I  dare  say  he  has  already  told  her,"  she  added;  "I 
know  he  was  going  down  to  Mannington  last  Friday." 

"To   stay   with   her?"  asked   Arthur. 

"Oh,  no!  with  his  sister,  Mrs.  Alington.  But  prob- 
ably he  and  Edith  met.  In  fact,  he  promised  to  go 
and  see  her!  They  are  great  friends." 

Peggy  heard  nothing  more  of  her  sister,  and  so  could 
not  meet  any  train  for  her  at  Cookham  next  day.  Both 


SHEAVES  137 

Arthur  Crowfoot  and  her  husband,  who  was  going  to 
attend  something  grandly  masonic,  Went  up  to  town 
next  morning,  and  as  Toby  would  not  be  back  that 
night  she  planned  a  gorgeously  inactive  day  for  herself, 
intending  in  the  morning  to  punt  herself  up  not  quite 
so  far  as  Cookham  lock,  and  to  tie  up  under  the  trees 
there  till  lunch- time,  with  a  book  that  had  to  be  first 
cut,  and  then  read.  She  meant  to  lunch  with  the  chil- 
dren, and  to  take  them  down  the  river  toward  Maiden- 
head, and  make  tea  in  the  punt.  The  lighting  of  the 
r.pirit-lamp,  indeed,  Would  be  the  only  effort  she  Would 
be  called  upon  to  make  in  the  afternoon,  for  Jim  and 
Daisy,  with  shrill  recrimination,  and  a  good  deal  of 
circular  movement  in  mid-Thames,  would  be  respon- 
sible for  the  locomotion,  and  also  for  the  setting  out  of 
tea,  all  except  this  lighting  of  the  spirit-lamp,  while 
she  Would  sit  still,  and  be  splashed,  at  not  infrequent 
intervals,  for  paddles,  not  punt  poles,  which  Were  too 
sensational,  were  the  implements  to  be  applied  by  the 
children.  And  even  though  their  verdict  had  been  that 
she  did  not  "play  "  nearly  as  Well  as  Hugh,  this  deprecia- 
tory criticism  did  not  spoil  her  own  pleasure  in  being 
alone  all  the  afternoon  with  these  darling  children,  and 
in  being  real  again  herself,  their  mother.  London, 
of  course,  with  its  friends,  its  manifold  businesses  into 
which  all  her  time  and  energies  went,  was  quite  real  too, 
but  after  the  months  and  the  fatigue  of  it,  the  incessant 
rush,  the  froth  and  bubble  in  which  she  so  delighted, 
she  felt  more  real  somehow  when  Jim  at  the  prow  and 
Daisy  at  the  helm  abused  each  other  in  shrill  trebles 
and  appealed  to  her  for  decision.  Woman  of  the  world 
as  she  was  to  her  finger-tips,  she  Was  yet  woman  of  the 
home,  and  when  all  was  said  and  done,  and  all  her 
energies,  which  were  so  much  a  part  of  her,  relaxed, 


138  SHEAVES 

there  was  still  nothing  so  much  a  part  of  her  as  the  chil- 
dren. Often  for  days  together  in  town  she  hardly  set 
eyes  on  them;  but  that  was  a  fault  not  of  hers,  but  of 
her  environment,  and  to  live  in  accordance  with  that, 
to  slave  and  toil  for  that,  was  her  duty  also. 

And  then  in  the  evening,  by  the  dinner-train  prob- 
ably, arriving  here  after  the  children  had  gone  to  bed, 
would  come  the  woman  she  loved  most  in  all  the  world, 
to  whom  she  would  have  given  so  much  of  her  own 
happiness  if  out  of  that  gift  there  could  be  made  even  a 
little  for  her,  to  make  up  to  her  for  those  years  during 
which  with  all  the  materials  and  potentialities  for  happi- 
ness in  herself,  and  with  all  the  birthright  of  it,  Edith 
had  found  only  bitterness  and  terror.  For  somehow, 
in  spite  of  all  Edith's  huge  delight  at  the  success  of  her 
play,  in  spite  of  the  eagerness  with  which  she  had  flung 
herself  into  her  garden-making  at  Mannington,  her 
absorption  in  that  and  in  this  new  work  of  her  brain 
which  occupied  her  so  greatly,  Peggy  could  not  believe 
that  the  inward  happiness  of  the  heart  could  spring 
from  this  soil  if  the  soil  was  a  woman's  heart.  With  a 
man  it  was  different;  husbandhood  was  not  to  a  man 
of  the  same  essentiality  as  was  wifehood  to  a  woman, 
and  a  thousand  times  more,  surely,  fatherhood  was 
nothing  compared  to  motherhood.  She  longed  to  see 
Edith  married  again,  she  longed  to  see  her  with  a  child 
in  her  arms  before  the  envious  years  took  these  priceless 
possibilities  from  her. 

Peggy  had  punted  herself  up  to  the  little  tree-sheltered 
corner  where  she  had  designed  to  spend  her  morning, 
first  cutting  and  then  reading  this  very  interesting  work 
on  the  internal  affairs  of  Russia,  but  having  tied  up, 
she  sat  for  some  little  while  lost  in  these  thoughts.  All 
around  her  the  life  of  Nature  eternally  renewed  from 


SHEAVES  139 

year  to  year  rioted  and  flourished,  fed  by  the  imperishable 
river  and  these  summer  suns.  All  the  murmurs  of  the 
forest  were  in  her  ears,  birds  called  to  each  other,  bees 
were  busy  drinking  from  honey-laden  chalices  of  the 
meadow  flowers,  and  the  melodious  rush  and  plunge  of 
the  weir  just  above  seemed  the  very  sound  of  the  out- 
pouring of  life.  But  somehow  there  Was  a  great  change 
in  the  face  of  things  since  the  last  time  she  had  been  here 
with  Hugh  and  Edith.  June  was  not  over  then,  and 
the  river  banks  were  sprayed  with  the  pink  of  the  briar- 
rose  or  their  springy  leaping  tendrils.  Blue  mists  of 
forget-me-not  lay  on  the  margin  of  the  stream,  lit  as  it 
Were  by  the  bold  yellow  suns  of  the  marsh-marigold, 
and  Waved  upon  by  the  purple  of  the  loose-strife.  The 
flowers  of  the  lirne-trees,  so  much  the  colour  of  the 
foliage  that  the  bees,  small  Wonder,  must  find  their 
way  to  them  by  scent  alone,  were  over,  and  though  the 
year  was  still  at  its  height,  it  Was  impossible  not  to 
remember  that  after  this  came  autumn,  whereas  after 
the  other  came  summer.  It  was  the  same  with  people 
too;  some  had  their  summer  still  in  front  of  them,  to 

others 

A  Wave  of  pity,  intense  and  very  tender,  swept  over 
Peggy.  Youth  Was  so  short,  and  to  women,  if  not  to 
men,  in  youth  was  all  the  honey  of  life.  It  Was  capable 
to  some  extent,  no  doubt,  of  being  stored,  of  being 
enjoyed  afterward,  when  children  and  children's  children, 
maybe,  grew  up  round  one,  but  could  anything  be  like 
the  first  mornings  of  spring  when  one  gathered  it  oneself 
from  the  dewy  flowers?  And  some  poor  dears  had 
never  known  the  sweetness  of  those  May-dews,  and  to 
some  their  sweetness  had  but  been  bitterness.  That 
bitterness,  too,  like  the  honey,  Was  garnered  and  eaten 
afterward  and  though,  even  as  the  garnered  honey 


t4o  SHEAVES 

was  not  so  sweet  as  the  May-dew,  so  the  garnered  bit- 
terness was  not  so  sharp  in  the  gall  of  its  wormwood, 
yet  how  could  it  be  right  that  this  should  be  a  woman's 
harvesting?  No  doubt,  as  Peggy  fully  believed,  there 
would  be  a  readjustment,  a  compensation  in  the  house 
of  many  mansions,  but  that,  she  added  to  herself  without 
any  touch  of  irreverence,  is  not  the  same  thing. 

Then  she  gave  a  great  sigh,  took  up  her  book  and  an 
immense  ivory  paper-cutter,  and  began  to  travel  in  the 
realms  of  gold,  as  Canon  Alington  would  have  said. 
Then  for  a  moment  she  paused,  and,  book  in  one  hand 
and  paper-cutter  in  the  other,  she  held  them  up  in  front 
of  her  as  if  in  supplication. 

"Dear  God.  make  everybody  very  happy  always!" 
she  said  aloud. 

Russia  seemed  to  Peggy  a  very  terrible  but  rather 
vague  place,  since  she  certainly  did  not  devote  to  it  an 
undivided  attention,  and  the  quality  of  her  information 
about  it  took  a  decided  turn  for  the  worse  when,  before 
very  long,  this  ivory  paper-cutter,  which  she  had  mis- 
takenly laid  down  on  the  side  of  the  punt  while  she  was 
turning  over  a  few  severed  leaves  (the  book  was  one  of 
those  tiresome  ones  which  require  to  be  cut  now  at  the 
side,  now  at  the  top,  now  apparently  in  every  possible 
direction),  slipped  with  a  loud  splash  into  the  bosom 
of  Father  Thames,  and  was  lost  in  him.  Thereafter  her 
knowledge  of  Russian  affairs  grew  more  scrappy  and 
disjointed,  for  after  a  short  attempt  to  supply  the  place 
of  the  paper-cutter  with  a  hairpin,  she  had- to  glean  her 
information  by  peeping  between  leaves,  while  others 
remained  sealed  to  her.  Soon,  in  fact,  she  abandoned 
the  attempt  altogether. 

Summer,  summer  everywhere!  Summer  on  these 
green  Thames-side  woods  and  in  the  water  in  which  she 


SHEAVES  141 

dabbled  her  hand,  Warm  almost  with  its  long  leisurely 
travel  through  so  many  noons  of  July  since  it  left  the 
spring  of  its  uprising,  where  the  winter  rains  had  stored 
it.  And  very  notably  Was  it  summer  in  her  own  heart, 
for  growth  and  life  she  felt  were  at  their  fullest  there. 
She  was  happy  in  her  friends,  happy  in  the  multitudi- 
nous activities  of  her  busy  life,  and,  above  all,  happy  in 
her  home,  her  husband,  and  her  children.  Nor  was  her 
happiness  of  the  stolid  brooding  order,  for  just  as  heat 
in  summer  weather  always  roused  her  body  to  greater 
exertion,  so  this  summer  of  her  heart  made  her  reach 
out  to  all  the  world  in  a  benevolence  that  longed  for  the 
happiness  of  others.  And  then,  fearing  for  one  brief 
and  terrible  moment  that  she  Was  becoming  like  Am- 
brose, of  whom  Hugh  had  sent  her  a  perfectly  fair  or 
even  flattering  description,  she  untied  her  punt  and 
pushed  out  into  the  stream  again. 

The  afternoon  was  all  that  it  should  be,  and  a  story 
she  told  the  children  earned  the  remarkable  distinction 
of  being  considered  by  Jim  as  of  a  merit  equal  to  some  of 
Hugh's,  and  though  Daisy  snorted  scornfully  at  such 
a  notion,  Peggy  felt  humbly  gratified  that  in  the  opinion 
of  one  of  her  children  she  was  getting  on.  Daisy,  how- 
ever, afraid  that  the  snorting  Was  not  quite  kind  to  her 
mother,  explained  the  position. 

"Darling  mummy,"  she  said,  "I  love  you  more  than 
anybody,  and  you  make  tea  ever  so  much  better  than 
Hughie  does — oh,  he  makes  it  so  badly  and  generally 
spills — but  if  I  was  to  tell  you  you  sang  better  than 
Hughie,  it  Would  be  silly,  Wouldn't  it?" 

Jim  slapped  the  water  with  the  flat  of  his  paddle. 

"Oh,  you  goose,"  he  said,  "you're  trying  to — to 

What  was  it  that  nurse  did  to  me  when  I  had  to  go  to 
the  dentist?" 


1 42  SHEAVES 

"Put  on  your  hat?"  suggested  Peggy. 

"No,"  squealed  Jim,  "I  had  my  hat  on.  know, 
break  it  to  me.  Daisy's  trying  to  break  it  to  you  that 
she  doesn't  think  you  tell  stories  as  well  as  Hugh,  and 
so  she  tells  you  you  make  tea  better.  She's  a  girl. 
Now,  when  I  think  a  thing  I  say  it  straight  out." 

"Yes,  darling,  I  know  you  do,"  remarked  his  mother, 
with  certain  vivid  passages  in  her  mind. 

"Oh,  Jim,  shut  up!  "  said  Daisy.  "You  see,  mummy 
darling,  you  make  tea  better  because  you  are  so  much 
older  than  Hugh — oh,  ever  so  much  older! — and  I 
think  he  tells  stories  better  because  he's  only  a  boy. 
You  can't  have  everything,  can  you?  If  you're  old 
and  go  in  to  dinner  you  can't  eat  the  ices  on  the  stairs." 

Jim  again  belaboured  the  unoffending  Thames. 

"When  I  grow  up  I  shall  have  everything,"  he  ex- 
claimed. "  I  shall  go  in  to  dinner  and  eat  everything, 
and  then  go  out  and  eat  ices  on  the  stairs.  And  spotted- 
dog!  "  he  added. 

But  Daisy  was  regarding  her  mother  with  a  frown 
on  her  wise  little  face. 

"You  see,  don't  you?"  she  said.  "Of  course,  Aunt 
Edith  can  tell  beautiful  stories,  but  then  she's  so  fright- 
fully clever  that  she  can  make  believe  to  be  young,  so 
that  you  really  do  believe  it." 

"Yes,  darling,  I  see,"  said  Peggy. 

"Two  helpings  of  spotted-dog!"  shrieked  Jim,  finding 
his  ultimatum  had  not  received  an  answer. 

"Then  you'll  have  pains  in  your  inside,"  said  his 
mother,  "and  have  to  go  to  bed  till  next  Friday." 

"Saturday!"  screamed  Daisy,  with  a  sudden  lapse 
from  the  philosophic. 

"Now,  darlings,  take  care  don't  tip  up  the  punt. 
Have  you  both  finished  your  tea?" 


SHEAVES  143 

"Ages  ago,"  said  Jim. 

"Very  well,  put  all  the  things  back  into  the  tea- 
basket." 

"And  may  I  pour  the  rest  of  the  tea  into  the  river?" 
asked  Daisy. 

"Yes,  and  Jim  shall  give  the  rest  of  that  bun  to  the 
swans." 

"And  then  will  you  tell  us  another  story?     Please!" 

"Yes,  if  you  like,  and  then  we  shall  have  to  get  home, 
to  be  there  when  Aunt  Edith  comes." 

Daisy  was  pouring  the  tea  away  very  slowly  to  make 
it  last  longer. 

"If  I  was  Aunt  Edith,"  she  said,  "I  should  marry 
Hughie." 

"Pooh,  that's  because  you're  a  girl!"  said  Jim. 
"Catch  Hughie  marrying  anybody!  Besides,  he's  prom- 
ised to  live  with  me  in  the  cave  underneath  where  the 
water  comes  out  of  the  weir." 

Daisy  paused  in  her  occupation. 

"Oh,  Jim,   did  he?     When?"  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  on  one  of  the  Sundays!  And  the  frog- footman's 
going  to  say  We're  not  at  home  to  anybody." 

"As  if  anybody  would  want  to  come!"  said  Daisy 
scornfully,  but  rather  hurt  in  her  mind. 

"Well,  they  wouldn't  if  they  did!" 

A  short  silence,  and  Daisy  yielded. 

"I  shall  come,"  she  said. 

"Not  you!" 

"Then  I  shall  turn  the  water  off,  and  what'll  happen 
to  your  silly  old  cave  then?"  she  asked. 

Relations  were  getting  a  little  strained,  and  Peggy 
interposed. 

"No,  Daisy  and  I  will  live  in  the  kingfisher's 
nest,"  she  said,  "and  Mr.  Kingfisher  will  peck 


144  SHEAVES 

anybody  who  ever  looks  in.  And  Aunt  Edith  shall 
live  with  us." 

This  was  too  much  for  Jim. 

"Perhaps  we  had  all  better  live  together,"  he  said. 
"  I  vote  we  do,  and  then  we  can  have  two  houses  each!  " 

Edith  arrived  as  her  sister  had  expected  by  the  dinner- 
train,  and  a  brain  less  quick  and  eyes  less  loving  than 
Peggy's  could  easily  see  that  something  had  happened. 
But  since  Edith  did  not  at  present  speak  about  this 
reason  for  which  she  particularly  wanted  to  see  her, 
Peggy,  with  the  respect  for  the  confidence  of  friends 
that  with  her  extended  even  into  the  region  of  thought 
and  conjecture,  forbore  from  exercising  her  mind  at 
all  over  what  it  was.  She  merely  registered  the  fact 
that  Edith  looked  splendid.  So  they  dined  outside  in 
the  tent  by  the  river,  and  while  the  servants  were  in 
attendance  talked  not  indeed  of  indifferent  things,  but 
of  a  hundred  things  that  interested  them  both,  until 
they  should  be  alone  and  this  "particular  "  thing  come  on 
the  board  of  talk.  And  in  process  of  time  the  table  was 
cleared,  and  the  evening  papers  put  out,  and  then  coffee- 
cups  were  jingled  away  on  the  tray  to  the  house.  Peggy, 
still  with  the  idea  of  not  wishing  even  to  seem  to  hurry 
a  confidence,  had  taken  up  some  pink  sheet  or  other, 
but  Edith  suddenly  rose  and  stood  before  her. 

"Put  down  your  paper,  dear  Peggy,"  she  said,  "and 
listen  to  me.  I  have  something  to  tell  you,  that  for 
which  I  wanted  to  see  you.  Oh,  Peggy,  Hugh  has  asked 
me  to  marry  him." 

The  paper  slid  from  Peggy's  knees,  and  she  stared 
for  one  moment  in  sheer  astonishment.  At  the  instant 
the  exclamation  "Oh,  poor  Hughie!"  had  risen  to  her 
lips  at  the  thought  of  what  Edith's  answer  must  surely 
be,  and  almost  passed  them,  but  as  instantaneously 


SHEAVES  145 

she  saw  how  utterly  off  the  mark  was  any  thought  of 
pity  for  Hugh.  Again  and  again  she  had  longed  for  the 
happiness  of  love  and  the  light  of  it  to  come  to  her 
sister's  face,  and  she  saw  it  there  now.  But  that  it 
should  come  like  this  and  for  him  was  so  utterly  un- 
expected that  when  Daisy  had  suggested  the  same  thing 
this  afternoon  it  had  been  no  more  real  than  Jim's 
announcement  that  Hugh  Was  going  to  live  with  him 
in  the  cave  of  Water  at  the  weir. 

But  now  it  Was  real;  here  were  her  sister's  hands 
stretched  to  her  for  congratulation,  her  face  bent  to 
hers  for  her  kiss.  But  before  she  need  grasp  her  hands 
or  kiss  her  there  was  a  reasonable  question  to  ask. 

"And  what  did  you  say,  dear?"  she  asked. 

"I  told  him  how  unexpected  it  was,  that  I  could  not 
answer  him  at  once.  But  he  knows,  I  think,"  she 
added  softly. 

Peggy  looked  round  quickly. 

"Let  us  go  indoors,"  she  said.  "We  can't  talk  here, 
it  is  too  open.  The  trees  will  hear,  or  the  servants,  and 
it's  dark.  Come  Edith!  " 

For  one  moment  the  brightness  of  Edith's  face  faded, 
as  if  a  cloud  had  passed  over  it,  but  it  cleared  again,  and 
the  two  sisters,  Peggy  walking  in  front,  entered  the 
drawing-room  that  looked  on  to  the  lawn.  And  with 
the  same  instinct  for  privacy,  Peggy  closed  the  windows. 
Then  she  turned  to  her  sister. 

"Oh,  Edith,  what  are  you  going  to  say  to  him?" 
she  asked.  "Surely  it  Was  possible  to  give  him  his 
answer  at  once — and  you  said  he  knew!" 

But  these  words  Were  only  half-uttered,  for  even 
before  they  were  spoken  Peggy  knew  the  futility  of 
pretence  like  this.  But  even  that  only  dimmed  the 
brightness  of  Edith's  face  as  some  light  film  of  mist 


i46  SHEAVES 

may  dim  the  apparent  brightness  of  the  sun — ever  so 
little  a  distance  up  in  air,  the  films  are  below. 

"Yes,  I  think  he  knew,"  she  said,  "and  it  was  stupid 
of  me.  For  I  knew  too!" 

"Then  do  you  mean  you  are  going  to  accept  him?" 
asked  Peggy. 

"I  have,  in  all  but  telling  him  so." 

For  one  moment  Peggy  felt  utterly  helpless,  but  then 
there  came  to  her  aid  that  passion  for  the  happiness  of 
others  that  was  so  urgent  within  her,  and  which  had 
prompted  that  sincere  little  heart's-cry  in  the  punt  this 
morning — and  it  was  that  and  that  alone  that  prompted 
her  to  speak. 

"Yet  you  came  here  to  tell  me  before  you  answered 
him,"  she  said.  "Why?" 

Edith  looked  grave  for  a  moment — searching,  indeed, 
for  the  reason  that  had  prompted  what  had  been  an 
instinct  to  her. 

"I  think  one  always  wants  to  consult  a  person  one 
loves  and  trusts  before  taking  any  step  at  all,"  she  said 
quite  simply. 

"Ah,  you  dear,"  said  Peggy,  impulsively  kissing  her, 
"and  all  I  say,  all  I  think,  you  know,  is  said  and  thought 
by  such  a  one." 

That  filmy  mist  had  thickened,  for  whatever  love 
beckons  it  cannot  quench  that  love  which  has  sprung 
from  common  blood, and  has  been  deepened  and  strength- 
ened through  years  of  affection  and  esteem.  If  the  one 
is  irresistible,  the  other  clings  ivy-hard,  and  though 
both  sisters  knew  that  it  was  impossible  that  that  cord 
of  love  which  had  begun  at  birth  between  them  could 
be  severed,  yet  there  was  no  doubt  that  it  would  be 
stretched  and  strained. 

Peggy  sat  down. 


SHEAVES  147 

"You  came  to  consult  me,"  she  said,  "and  so  it  would 
be  futile  if  I  did  not  give  you  all  that  is  most  sincere  in 
me.  Oh,  Edith,  it  would  be  madness  in  you  to  do  this! 
While  one  is  in  this  life,  and  bounded  by  the  limitation 
of  years,  one  has  to  use  common  sense,  and  not  go 
trespassing,  and — and  masquerading.  You  are  a  beauti- 
ful woman,  dear,  and  Heaven  knows,  and  I  do,  how 
lovable.  You  are  clever,  you  have  knowledge 
of  life " 

Edith  just  moved  in  her  chair. 

"By  the  way,  I  told  him  I  Wrote  'Gambits,'"  she 
said;  "it  was  after  that  that  he  proposed  to  me!" 

Peggy  shook  her  head. 

"That  is  nothing,"  she  said;  "he  would  soon  have 
knoxvn,  and  next  Week  makes  no  difference.  But  it 
Was  with  you  he  fell  in  love,  with  the  mind  that  made 
that  and  the  hand  that  wrote  it,  and  the  clear  eye  that 
saw  so  much  of  human  things  and  Was  so  pitiful  and 
kind — oh,  me,  Edith,  if  only  We  poor  Women  were  kindly 
and  painlessly  put  away  at  the  age  of  fifty  how  much 
better  for  everybody.  No,  I  don't  really  think  that, 
because  there  are  lots  of  things  which  can  only  be  done 
by  Women  over  fifty,  like — like  understanding  people, 
which  no  man  ever  did,  and  no  woman  till  she  was  old. 
And  to  understand  is  so  much,  and,  having  understood, 
to  smile  and  be  kind,  and — 

"And  cease  to  be  oneself,"  said  Edith  quietly. 

"No,  not  that,  but  to  be  one's  children,  to " 

Edith  got  up  quickly,  with  the  sun  shining  again. 

"But  I  have  no  children,  dear  Peggy,"  she  said. 
"Look  at  my  point  of  view  for  a  moment.  Indeed,  all 
the  time  that  the  years  Were  passing  so  beautifully  for 
mothers,  for  people  like  you,  What  was  I?  You  know. 
And  then,  when  the  chains  Were  broken,  I  did  live  down 


i48  SHEAVES 

those  years,  I  tell  you  that,  and  it  is  true.  I  hunted 
every  piece  of  bitterness  out  of  my  heart.  By  God's 
grace  I  cleansed  and  renewed  it,  and  it  is  ready — I  say 
it — for  the  man  Who  loves  me.  Oh,  how  often  I  rebelled, 
and  said  that  my  life  had  been  spoiled,  that  the  years 
that  should  have  been  beautiful  had  been  a  succession 
of  days  on  each  of  which  I  wished  that  I  was  dead.  But 
He  chose  that  I  should  not  die.  Why?  I  was  prepared 
for  other  things ;  God  knows  that  if  this  had  never  come 
into  my  life  I  should  have  continued  to  live  pleasantly 
and  very  far  from  complaining,  with  a  hundred  interests, 
a  hundred  schemes,  and  in  one's  infinitesimal  way  trying 
to  make  people  on  the  whole  glad  that  one  is  alive.  But 
now  how  can  I  help  seeing  that  all  that  was  in  twilight? 
Hugh  came!" 

Peggy  clasped  her  hands  together. 

"Oh,  it  is  hard,"  she  cried,  "I  can  guess  how  hard. 
For  I  know  Hugh,  and  I  love  him  as  I  love  the  sun  and 
the  trees,  and  if  one  loved  him  as  a  man,  I  can  guess,  I  can 
imagine  what  that  would  be.  But  think,  my  darling, 
just  think — what  of  ten  years  from  now;  the  years  that 
will  but  still  be  bringing  nearer  his  prime  of  life.  What 
will  he  be  in  ten  years?  Just  thirty-five,  with  five 
thirties  and  ten  forties  still  in  front  of  him.  And  then 
what?  Fifty  still!  And  you?  Why,  you  are  seven- 
teen years  older  than  he!  What  does  that  matter  now? 
Nothing,  of  course.  But  then — his  life  will  be  in  full 
swing,  the  best  of  its  activities  still  in  full  force.  He 
will  be  singing  at  the  opera  still.  And  you?  At  home, 
too!  It  is  that  which  matters.  He  planning  still  for 
the  future,  and  you  able  only  to  answer  his  plans  with 
memories  of  the  past.  Yes,  perhaps  it  is  grotesque  to 
look  forward  twenty-five  years.  But  look  forward 
ten  only." 


SHEAVES  149 

Peggy  went  to  the  window  she  had  shut  when  they 
came  in  and  flung  it  open  again. 

"Ah,  if  only  one  was  renewed  like  the  night  and  the 
river,"  she  said,  "it  would  be  different.  But  one  is  not; 
age  comes  so  quickly  When  youth  is  over.  And  our 
tragedy  is  that  we  feel  young  still!  Have  pity  on  Hugh, 
dear.  Even  more  have  pity  on  yourself;  spare  yourself 
the  endless,  ceaseless  struggle  that  you  will  make  for 
yourself  in  the  years  to  come  if  you  marry  him.  Oh, 
'  Edith,  I  do  Want  you  to  be  happy  so  much,  and  a  month 
ago  you  Were  so  happy — you  looked  forward  to  such 
happy  years." 

"Would  that  content  you? "  asked  Edith — "  the  things, 
I  mean,  that  made  my  happiness  a  month  ago?" 

"No;  how  could  they,  dear,  if  it  meant  that  for  the 
rest  of  my  life  Toby  and  the  children  and  all  were  to  be 
lost  to  me?" 

"Nor  could  they  content  me  now,"  said  Edith,  "if 
this  had  to  be  lost  to  me." 

Then  she  got  up,  and  stood  by  her  sister  again. 

"Ah,  don't  you  see  how  almost  all  you  have  said 
tells  the  other  way?"  she  said,  speaking  quickly.  "It 
is  just  because  there  is  no  renewal  for  us,  just  because 
age  comes  so  quickly  when  youth  is  over  that  I  cannot 
miss  it.  I  have  missed  too  much  already,  and  I  cannot 
miss  more.  I  rage  for  life,  and  when  I  can  have  it,  I 
must.  If  some  dreadful  blow  should  take  everything 
from  you,  Peggy,  and  leave  you  just  with  a  garden  and 
a  brain  of  a  kind,  as  I  was  left,  it  would  be  more  reason- 
able for  you  to  be  content  than  it  would  for  me.  You 
have  had  all  these  things — the  love  of  your  husband, 
the  love  of  your  children,  they  would  be  memories  to 
you,  and  rose-gardens  where  any  Woman  might  wander 
happily.  But  What  are  my  memories?  The  best  I 


iSo  SHEAVES 

can  do  is  to  have  none.  And  now  Love  has  come — 
what  further  memory  should  I  be  left  with  if  I  rejected 
it?" 

Edith  caught  hold  of  her  sister's  hands  and  drew  her 
down  by  her  side  on  to  the  sofa.  Her  hands,  Peggy  felt, 
were  trembling,  that  beautiful  mouth  was  trembling  too, 
but  those  tremours,  and  the  moisture  that  stood  in  her 
eyes,  were  not  the  signs  of  sorrow;  they  were  but  tokens 
of  the  love  and  the  joy  that  had  so  taken  possession  of 
her,  of  the  eternal  youth  that  invaded  and  held  her. 
And  the  eternal  youth  of  love  transformed  her;  it  was 
the  rapture  of  a  girl's  first  love  that  trembled  on  her  lips 
and  fell  in  hesitating  speech. 

"Oh,  Peggy,  think  what  it  means  to  me,"  she  said. 
"The  years  and  the  bitterness  of  them  it  seems  now 
that  I  had  but  covered  up,  but  Hugh  has  cancelled  them, 
swept  them  away.  I  can't  think  of  them  any  longer; 
I  can't  conceive  of  them  having  existed." 

She  gave  a  gentle  little  laugh  as  she  caressed  Peggy's 
hand. 

"How  laboriously  I  used  to  sweep  and  dust  in  my 
mind,"  she  said.  "How  I  used  to  struggle  and  deter- 
mine to  forget!  And  then  he  came  and  said,  ' Du  meine 
Seele,'  and  there  had  been  no  struggle  at  all — there  had 
been  nothing.  I  had  been  waiting  for  Hughie  all  these 
years,  and  had  been  dreaming,  I  suppose.  He  woke  me." 

It  was  then,  for  the  first  time,  as  she  looked  into  the 
soft,  eager  face,  that  Peggy  saw  how  hopeless  was  remon- 
strance or  argument.  But  there  was  just  one  word 
more  she  could  say. 

"  I  asked  you  to  have  pity  on  yourself  just  now,"  she 
said.  "But  have  pity  on  Hugh.  Edith,  don't  be  selfish." 

The  moment  she  had  said  it  she  wished  she  had  not. 
Edith  winced  as  if  she  had  struck  her. 


SHEAVES  151 

"Ah!"  she  said,  and  that  was  all,  but  she  dropped 
Peggy's  hand.-  But  Peggy,  though  she  felt  brutal, 
though  she  felt  torn  in  two,  went  on. 

"Yes,  selfish,"  she  said.  "You  are  taking  so  much, 
you  are  taking  all  the  best  years  of  a  young  man's  life, 
and  giving  him  a  life  from  which  youth  is  past.  It 
isn't  fair.  It  is  selfish." 

She  looked  up  at  Edith,  who  sat  quite  still;  next 
moment  she  flung  herself  on  the  ground  and  knelt  beside 
her,  for  she  saw  the  uselessness  of  this  also. 

"Oh,  my  darling,  I  can't  go  on,"  she  said.  "Forget 
that  I  said  it.  I  have  known  you  so  long,  and  loved 
you  so  much,  and  you  never  did  a  selfish  thing,  and 
could  not.  Do  forgive  me!" 

Edith  took  her  hands  again  in  hers. 

"Dear,  how  can  you  ask  me  to  forgive?"  she  said. 
"As  if  you  could  do  anything  to  me  that  needs  forgive- 
ness? So  go  on!" 

"But  I  can't.  Besides,  that  is  all;  I  have  said  it 
all,"  whispered  Peggy. 

"  But  it  seems  to  you  that  I  am  being  selfish,"  repeated 
Edith. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Peggy.  "I  can't  imagine  you 
selfish.  But  blind  then." 

Then  Edith  smiled  at  her. 

"Ah,  yes,  blind,"  she  said.  "I  will  willingly  allow 
that  I  may  be.  But  then  is  not  Hugh  blind  also?  And 
as  long  as  we  both  remain  blind  I  think  We  shall  be  very 
content." 

She  drew  Peggy  close  to  her  and  kissed  her. 

"  I  had  to  tell  you,  Peggy,"  she  said,  "not  only  because 
you  are  what  you  always  have  been  to  me,  but  because  it 
Was  through  you  and  here  that  I  met  him.  He  sang 
that  Schumann  song  then,  singing  it  into  the  desert,  as 


i52  SHEAVES 

it  were,  letting  the  wind  take  it  where  it  chose.  And 
now  it  is  not  to  the  desert  he  sings  it.  At  least,  the 
desert  has  blossomed!" 

Once  again  the  glory  and  the  eternal  youth  of  love 
so  shone  from  Edith's  face  that  Peggy  felt  that  there 
could  be  no  mistake  about  this;  whatever  had  lit  that 
beacon  there  must  be  meant  for  her. 

"Then  it  is  to  be?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  dear  Peggy.  I  wanted  to  see  you  first,  as  I 
told  you.  But  otherwise — for  all  you  have  said  I 
thought  of  before,  the  night  before  in  fact — I  only 
wonder  now  why  I  did  not  say  'Yes'  to  him  at  once. 
But  it  was  so  unexpected  and  so  wonderful,  and  I 
wanted  to  cry  too,  which  I  did." 

"Then  God  bless  you  and  him  and  your  life,"  said 
Peggy  with  something  like  a  sob  in  her  voice,  "and  give 
you  both  all  happiness,  my  darling." 

Such  a  talk  had  to  be  framed  in  silence,  but  it  was 
not  long  before  they  spoke  not  of  other  things,  for  that 
could  scarcely  be,  but  of  the  more  practical  side  of  this. 
Edith  had  told  Hugh  that  she  would  tell  him  her  answer 
as  soon  as  she  could,  and  the  telegram  to  be  sent  next 
morning  added  Peggy's  congratulations,  and  begged 
him  to  come  down  here  for  a  night.  But  before  long 
the  two  parted  to  go  to  bed.  There  was  no  more  to  say, 
and  it  was  frankly  useless  to  attempt  to  speak  of  any- 
thing else. 

But  Peggy  lay  long  awake.  She  turned  from  one  side 
to  the  other  and  found  no  rest  for  her  body  or  her 
thoughts.  All  her  love  for  her  sister  desired  her  happi- 
ness, but  all  her  wisdom  told  her  that  she  could  not  find 
it  permanently  here.  How  could  she?  In  the  nature 
of  things  how  could  she?  And  Hugh? 


CHAPTER  VIII 

HUGH  was  standing  at  the  dining-room  window  of 
the  Chalkpits  at  Mannington,  opening  letters, 
and  looking  with  slightly  pained  Wonder  at  the  hopeless 
ness  of  the  morning.  A  south-westerly  gale  had  set  in 
last  night,  and  through  the  hours  of  darkness  it  had 
increased  to  a  hurricane,  and  though  any  reasonable 
gale  might  have  been  expected  to  blow  itself  out  in  this 
time,  or  anyhow  to  show  signs  of  tiring,  this  particular 
one  seemed  merely  to  have  blown  itself  in,  just  as  it  had 
blown  in  the  window  of  his  dressing-room  half  an  hour 
ago.  Outside  the  garden  was  cowering  beneath  these 
blasts,  and  the  scuds  of  driving  rain  that  crossed  the 
Water-meadow  beyond  like  clouds  of  driven  smoke, 
blotting  out  the  landscape,  flung  themselves  against  the 
streaming  panes.  The  terrace  Walk,  that  last  night 
had  been  so  neat  and  orderly,  Was  now  but  a  series  of 
pools  of  wind-ruffled  water,  dotted  over  by  twigs  and 
branches  torn  from  the  tortured  trees,  and  early  seed- 
lings that  yesterday  had  shown  so  brave  an  upstanding 
were  now  but  a  little  plaster  of  tiny  stem  and  infinitesimal 
leaf  embedded  in  mud.  Creepers  had  been  torn  from 
the  wall,  leaves  battered  from  them,  and  the  Japanese 
cherry-tree  at  the  end  that  had  been  a  cascade  of  pink 
frothing  blossom  was  now  gaunt  and  bare.  It  seemed 
curious  that  the  laws  of  Nature  derianded  so  hysterical 
an  outburst. 

Hugh,  like  all  mercurially  minded  persons,  was  a  good 
deal  affected  by  climatic  conditions,  and  he  felt  some- 
what depressed.  Edith,  too,  had  evidently  finished 


i54  SHEAVES 

breakfast  and  gone  to  see  the  cook,  for  Hugh  certainly 
was  very  late  that  morning.  Her  absence  was  depressing 
too,  and  his  letters  were  dull,  and  they  had  to  go  to  town 
to-morrow,  and  he  distinctly  did  not  want  to.  It  was 
cold  too,  quite  disgustingly  cold,  and  to  fill  up  the  time 
while  he  was  waiting  for  his  fresh  tea  to  be  brought  in 
he  had  the  brilliant  idea  of  lighting  the  fire. 

The  fire  was  admirably  laid  (everything  in  the  house 
was  done  exactly  as  it  should  be  done,  and  in  no  other 
way),  and  paper  caught  stick,  and  stick  licked  coal  in- 
stantaneously. Almost  instantaneously  also  a  beautiful 
cloud  of  stinging  smoke  was  driven  into  the  room.  That 
would  never  do,  and  Hugh  spent  an  active  five  minutes 
in  beating  out  the  fire  he  had  just  lit.  But  it  warmed 
him.  Also  his  tea  came,  and  like  a  sensible  young  man 
he  sat  with  his  back  to  the  depressing  window,  propped 
up  the  daily  paper  against  the  teapot,  and  took  fish  and 
bacon  on  one  plate.  But  the  first  thing  he  saw  in  his 
paper  was  that  the  Royal  Opera,  Covent  Garden,  began 
on  May  i  with  "Lohengrin,"  in  which  the  name  part 
would  be  taken  by  the  new  young  English  tenor.  That 
was  no  news  to  him,  but  print  settled  it.  Hugh  read 
no  further,  but  said  "Oh,  lor!" 

That  had  been  Edith's  doing,  for  he  himself  had 
almost  taken  it  for  granted  that  his  engagement  to  her 
cancelled  his  engagement  to  the  syndicate,  which  indeed 
at  the  time  had  only  got  to  the  point  that  he  had  told 
Reuss  he  would  sing,  and  Reuss  had  not  even  at  that 
moment  told  them.  For  it  was  quite  a  different  thing  for 
an  unemployed  bachelor  to  spend  his  winter  (not  in  Frank- 
fort, it  is  true,  for  Reuss  Was  coming  to  London)  in  weeks 
of  really  hard  work  from  a  lately  married  man  doing  it. 
But  he  had  been  extraordinarily  wide  of  the  mark  when 
he  supposed  that  Edith  would  agree  with  him. 


SHEAVES  155 

"Ah,  Hughie,  you  mustn't  throw  it  up!"  she  said. 
"Why,  my  darling,  even  before — 

"Before  what?"  asked  the  guileful  Hugh. 

' '  Before  July  2  4th  it  was  one  of  the  things  in  my  life 
that  I  really  most  looked  forward  to,  that  this  year  I 
should  see  you  as  Lohengrin  and  Tristan.  And  what  do 
you  suppose  it  will  be  to  me  now? "  she  asked  softly. 

"But  if  we  are  not  married  till  September  we  shall 
have  just  three  minutes  of  honeymoon,"  he  said.  "  Be- 
cause I  can't  sing  unless  I  study  straight  away  from 
October." 

She  smiled  at  him. 

"Do  you  know  what  my  honeymoon  is  going  to  be?" 
she  asked. 

"Three  minutes." 

"No,  being  your  wife." 

And  then  again  his  eyes  glowed  like  coals. 

"  Besides,  Andrew  Robb  taught  you  to  want  to  express 
yourself,"  she  said,  "to  hold  people;  and  he  hasn't 
taught  you  different." 

Hugh  sighed. 

"Yes,  he  has,"  he  said.  "  He  has  taught  me  that — oh, 
that  nothing  matters  except  Andrew  Robb!  " 

"Well,  it  is  quite  a  big  piece  of  Andrew  Robb  that 
begs  you  not  to  give  it  up.  All  Andrew  Robb  begs 
you  not  to,"  she  added. 

"Oh,  blow  Andrew  Robb!"  said  Hugh.  "Edith, 
what  do  you  Want?" 

"Oh,  Hugh,  I  Want  you  to  sing  so!"  she  said.  VI 
shall  be  so  proud  of  you!" 

They  Were  still  at  Cookham  when  this  occurred,  on 
the  eve  of  Peggy's  departure  to  Marienbad  with  her 
husband,  and  on  the  moment  she  came  out  on  to  the 
lawn  where  they  were  sitting. 


i56  SHEAVES 

"Oh,  what  a  bad  reason,"  said  Hugh;  "as  if  you 
couldn't  be  proud  of  a  person  all  alone!  Love  in  a 
cottage  among  the  earwigs  is  better  than  the  gilded 
throng.  I'll  sing  to  you  as  often  as  you  like  at  Manning- 
ton.  What  have  other  people  got  to  do  with  you  and 
me?  Let's  ask  Peggy." 

Edith  laughed. 

"Yes,  do,"  she  said,  knowing  how  a  woman  must  feel 
about  a  thing  like  this. 

"I  shall  tell  it  her  as  if  it  wasn't  you  and  me,"  said 
Hugh.  "Oh,  Peggy,"  he  cried,  "We  want  you!" 

She  came. 

"Once  upon  a  time,"  said  Hugh,  talking  very  fast, 
"there  was  a  woman  with  an  extraordinary  ability  for 
acting,  and  she  and  another  man  fell  in  love  with  each 
other,  and  he  said,  '  I  jolly  well  won't  have  you  acting 
any  more  now!  You've  got  to  attend  to  me.'  Wasn't 
he  right?" 

Peggy  had  given  one  short  gasp,  but  checked  herself. 

"Why,  of  course  he  was,"  she  said. 

Hugh  turned  to  Edith. 

"Didn't  I  say  so?"  he  began. 

"  Hush! "  said  Edith.  "  Peggy,  once  upon  a  time  there 
was  a  man  who  used  to  sit  in  Piccadilly  Circus  and  tell 
stories  to  the  public.  At  least,  he  was  going  to.  But 
then  he  and  another  woman  fell  in  love  with  each  other, 
and  she  said, '  I ' — what  was  it? — '  I  jolly  Well  won't  have 
you  telling  stories  any  more  in  public!'  Wasn't  she 
right?" 

Peggy  turned  a  face  of  scorn. 

"  No,  she  Was  an  ass,"  she  said. 

"But  why?"  asked  Hugh.  "You  said  the  man 
Was  right." 

"Of  course.     Oh,  you  dears,  may  I  guess?     It's  about 


SHEAVES  157 

the  opera  next  year.     Make  him  sing,  Edith.    Hughie, 
you  are  so  elementary!" 

It  had  been  settled  thus,  and  now  this  morning  when 
he  read  the  first  two  lines  of  this  paragraph  the  whole 
scene  had  come  back  to  him  with  extraordinary  vivid- 
ness. It  was  right  somehow,  according  to  the  sisters, 
that  he  should  go  on  with  his  life  just  as  keenly  as — no, 
more  keenly,  for  his  wife  had  spurred  and  stimulated 
him  to  work,  than  before ;  while  it  was  right  for  her,  if 
he  proposed  anything — a  stroll  on  the  downs,  a  saunter 
in  the  garden,  a  game  of  billiards — that  she  should  join- 
him,  leaving  the  half-Written  Word,  the  unfinished  speech 
of  her  play.  She  did  so,  at  any  rate,  and  at  this  moment 
she  came  in  rather  hurriedly. 

"Hughie,  I  never  knew  you  Were  down,"  she  said.  "  I 
never  heard  you  come.  What  a  dreadfully  uncomfort- 
able breakfast!  Why  don't  you  arrange  things  better? 
Oh,  what  a  day!  Isn't  it  a  shame  for  our  last  day  here? 
But  I  suppose  Providence  can't  always  arrange  the 
weather  just  for  us.  Let's  light  fires  and  pull  down 
blinds." 

"I  tried  that  one,"  said  Hugh. 

"  I  know  it's  a  beast;  it  always  smokes  in  a  bad  wind. 
Any  news?  I  haven't  looked  at  the  paper." 

"The  opera  will  open  on  May  i,"  said  he.  "The 
young  English  tenor Ha,  ha!" 

"Oh,  Hughie,  don't  laugh  with  a  scornful  wonder! 
It's  much  worse  for  me." 

Hugh  felt  a  little  cheered  as  Edith  arranged  his  tea- 
pot and  toast-rack,  and  put  the  marmalade  within  reach. 

"Yes,  but  your  voice  won't  crack  like  fiddle-strings, 
he  said,  "and  your  knees  Won't  tremble  so  that  the  swan's 
head  falls  off.  'Das  siisz  Lied  verhdltl'  And  the  large 
couch  in  the  most  extraordinary  bedroom  where  a  large 


158  SHEAVES 

procession  of  German  nobles  have  conducted  me  will 
fall  into  small  fragments.  Oh,  why  did  you  and  Peggy 
conspire?" 

Edith  sat  down  and  poured  out  a  cup  of  tea  for  him. 

"Now,  speak  truth,  Hugh,"  she  said.  "Supposing 
you  got  a  telegram  now  this  instant  to  say  that  there 
was  to  be  no  opera  in  town  this  year,  and  that  for  com- 
pensation the  syndicate  placed  twenty-five  million 
pounds  to  your  credit,  wouldn't  you  be  disappointed? 
Wouldn't  you  feel  extremely  flat?" 

Hugh  considered  this  a  moment,  until  his  mouth  was 
free  for  speech  again. 

"Yes,  I  should,"  he  said. 

"Well,  then?" 

On  the  moment  the  butler  entered  with  a  telegram. 

Hugh  tore  it  open. 

"Clearly  the  twenty-five  million  pounds,"  he  said, 
"and  I  shall  feel  flat.  Oh,  no;  it's  Peggy!  May  she 
come  down  for  the  night?  Not  reply  paid  either.  Six- 
pence to  the  bad  instead  of  twenty-five  million  to  the 
good.  Yes,  get  me  a  form,"  he  said  to  the  man. 

For  one  moment  an  impulse  flashed  through  Edith's 
mind,  bidding  her  say,  "It's  our  last  day  here,  Hugh." 
But  she  did  not  give  voice  to  it. 

"What  luck!"  said  he.  "And  we'll  all  travel  up 
together  to-morrow." 

Then  he  looked  up  at  his  wife,  and  all  she  had  thought 
came  into  his  mind  also. 

"Or  shall  we  say  'No'?"  he  asked.  '"Why,  it's 
our  last  evening  here.  Let's  spend  it  alone  instead. 
Shall  we?" 

"It  would  be  rather  nice,"  said  Edith 

"Let  us  then.  We  are  dining  with  her  to-morrow, 
aren't  we?" 


SHEAVES  159 

The  man  had  brought  back  a  telegraph  form,  and  Hugh 
filled  it  in. 

"  Peggy  understands,"  he  remarked  as  he  wrote.  Then 
he  handed  it  to  his  wife. 

"Will  that  do?"  he  asked. 

She  read  it  to  herself. 

"  Sorry  —  but  —  We  —  don't  —  want  —  you  —  last  — 
evening  —  here  —  Edith  —  Hugh." 

She  laughed. 

"Peggy  could  hardly  fail  to  understand,"  she  said. 

The  opera  syndicate  this  year  had  taken  what  Hugh 
called  a  "turn  for  the  Bayreuth,"  or,  in  other  Words, 
a  turn  for  the  better,  and  had  made  it  understood  that 
stage  managers  and  producers  must  really  see  the  swans' 
heads  did  not  come  off  any  longer,  that  Siegfried's  raven 
appeared  more  or  less  at  the  right  moment,  and  that 
the  evening  star  in  "Tannhauser"  should  shine  before 
it  was  sung  to,  and  not  burst  into  being,  though  with 
incomparable  splendour,  some  minutes  after  Wolfran 
had  quite  finished  addressing  it.  Italian  opera,  of  course, 
could  still  look  after  itself,  since  a  few  songs  here  and 
there  by  Melba  and  Caruso  was  the  utmost  that  anybody 
in  his  senses  could  possibly  require;  but  German  opera, 
they  suddenly  felt,  might  perhaps  gain  a  little  if  every- 
body, orchestra,  principals,  and  chorus  alike,  studied 
a  little  more  and  tried  to  get  some  kind  of  uniformity. 
In  consequence  of  this  laudable  ideal  it  had  been  neces- 
sary for  Hugh  to  go  up  to  town  constantly  during  the 
last  month  or  two  to  be  put  through  his  scenes,  the  mere 
acting  of  them,  with  Elsa,  Isolde,  and  Elisabeth  under 
Reuss's  direction;  and  often,  too,  had  Reuss  been  down 
here.,  and  many  had  been  the  evenings  when,  in  the  big 
hall,  with  chalked  lines  for  the  position  of  couches,  rows 
of  nobles,  and  front  of  the  stage,  Hugh,  with  Edith  as 


160  SHEAVES 

mute  heroine,  had  gone  through  his  part,  with  Reuss 
at  the  piano,  ruthless  to  anything  slovenly,  eagle-eared 
for  any  false  inflexion  of  voice,  slurred  pronunciation, 
or  wrongly  taken  breath,  but,  hardly  less  rarely,  full 
of  praise  and  appreciation.  For  he  believed  no  less  than 
Edith  that  the  real  Wagner  hero  had  come  at  last,  him 
whom  the  musical  world  had  been  waiting  for  so  long, 
who  while  yet  young  should  have  developed  the  perfec- 
tion and  maturity  of  voice.  It  was  for  this  very  reason 
that  he  was  so  hard  on  Hugh,  so  unremitting  and  exact- 
ing in  his  demands,  for  there  was  so  much  to  be  got 
out  of  him. 

Edith  used  always  to  be  present  at  these  lessons,  ready 
to  be  the  heroine  if  action  was  needed,  and  of  late,  since 
she  had  got  to  know  the  scenes  by  heart,  instead  of  Herr 
Reuss  shouting  out  the  cues  from  the  piano  or,  if  more 
than  usually  carried  away,  singing  them  in  a  high, 
ridiculous  falsetto,  she  had  gone  through  whole  acts 
with  her  husband,  speaking  the  words,  for  instance,  of 
the  love-duet  in  Tristan,  slowly  and  rhythmically  to  the 
music,  so  that  the  scene  could  go  through  exactly  as  it 
would  be  played.  And  it  was  then  that  Reuss  most 
felt  what  Hugh  was  capable  of.  No  acting,  no  singing, 
if  worth  anything,  is  spontaneous;  every  gesture,  every 
note,  every  word  and  position  had  to  be  carefully  learned, 
but  when  that  was  done  it  was  the  great  singer  who 
could  light  it  all  with  passion  without  blurring  anything 
that  he  had  learned.  And  then  he  would  watch  the  two, 
as  he  had  watched  them  the  last  time  he  had  been  down 
here,  a  couple  of  days  ago,  still  eager  to  criticise,  still 
on  the  alert  for  a  fault  of  any  sort,  but  finding  nothing. 
At  the  end  he  had  said  "Bravo,  bravo!"  and  wiped  his 
spectacles. 

Then  he  got  up  and  held  out  his  hand  to  Edith. 


SHEAVES  161 

"It  was  you  who  made  him  sing,"  he  cried,  "not  I. 
Ach,  if  only  you  Were  his  Isolde,  how  We  Would  drive 
that  fat  London  off  its  head!" 

That  fat  London,  however,  had  to  be  driven  off 
its  head  without  Edith's  direct  assistance,  though 
this  morning  she  did  indirectly  what  she  could  by  induc- 
ing Hugh  to  go  and  practise,  when  he  had  finished 
breakfast,  and  refusing  to  allow  him  to  sit  with  her  in  her 
room  and  talk.  And  even  though  she  had  declared 
it  to  be  shameful  that  their  last  day  in  the  country  should 
be  so  wet,  she  was  extremely  well  content  to  think  of 
the  privacy  which  this  streaming  gale  Would  give  them. 
Canon  Alington,  it  is  true,  had  proposed  to  drop  in  to 
lunch,  since  he  would  be  on  his  way  back  from  some 
district-visiting  to  cottages  on  the  confines  of  his  parish 
during  the  morning,  but  that  most  conscientious  of  men, 
she  felt  certain,  would  postpone  even  a  duty  to  a  slightly 
more  propitious  morning. 

There  was  a  compact  between  her  and  Hugh  that  when 
he  Was  doing  his  lessons  she  also  should  do  "lessons," 
so  that  he  should  not  feel  that  everybody  else  (which 
meant  her)  was  leading  a  life  of  leisured  ease  while  he 
sang  over  and  over  again  some  faulty  phrase  or  arrived 
by  endless  repetition  at  a  smooth  enunciation  of  some 
half-dozen  notes  Which  Reuss  had  underlined,  and  this 
morning,  with  a  sense  of  heroic  effort  and  almost  para- 
lysing distaste,  she  saw  that  the  nature  of  her  lessons 
Was  clearly  indicated  for  her  by  the  very  large  pile  of 
shiny  American-cloth  volumes  that  Were  stacked  on 
her  writing-table,  and  Were  clearly  what  is  known  as  that 
most  unattractive  library  "the  books."  She  remem- 
bered also  with  fatal  and  unerring  distinctness,  she  was 
afraid,  that  they  had  been  stacked  there  just  a  month 
ago  on  a  morning  of  glorious  sunny  March  weather 


162  SHEAVES 

— "daffodil  weather,"  as  Hugh  called  it — and  that  she 
had  in  a  moment  of  mortal  weakness  decreed  that  they 
should  "run  on"  just  because  on  the  morning  when 
they  ought  to  have  been  settled  she  wanted  to  go  out 
instantly  with  Hugh.  So  she  took  a  large  sheet  of 
sermon-paper  and  wrote  "  Books.  April  isth  "  at  the  top. 
That  looked  so  businesslike  that  she  was  quite  encour- 
aged to  proceed.  So  below  she  wrote  "  £.  s.  d."  high 
up  on  the  right-hand  margin  of  the  paper  and  "Fish- 
monger" a  little  below  on  the  left. 

Fishmonger  proved  rather  depressing,  because  it 
looked  as  if  everybody  lived  exclusively  on  salmon,  but 
there  was  no  help  for  it,  and  down  it  went.  Wine 
merchant,  however,  came  next,  which  was  Hugh's 
affair,  and  it  rather  cheered  her  up  to  see  how  very 
much  alcohol  seemed  to  have  been  consumed,  and — oh, 
delightful  discovery! — Hugh  had  not  paid  that  for  ten 
weeks.  Greengrocer  came  next,  and  again  she  would 
have  guessed  that,  so  far  from  living  on  salmon,  every- 
body must  have  taken  to  vegetarianism  of  the  most 
expensive  kind;  but  the  butcher's  book  corrected  this 
erroneous  impression.  But  a  glimpse  at  the  stable-book 
made  her  feel  again  what  an  economical  housekeeper 
she  was.  Dear,  dear,  she  had  married  a  spendthrift! 

A  great  dash  of  rain  at  the  window  distracted  her  from 
these  sordid  details,  and  she  heard  the  wind  bellowing 
up  the  valley,  while  the  gutters  from  the  last  squall  of 
solid  water  gurgled  and  guffawed  and  overflowed.  That, 
too,  as  well  as  the  thought  of  her  spendthrift  husband, 
was  in  her  mind,  and  her  eyes  lit  and  her  mouth  smiled 
with  an  inward  pleasure  that  she  would  have  found  it 
hard  to  explain,  except  that  instinctively  this  riot  and 
want  of  calculation  on  the  part  of  the  elements  struck 
a  note  that  she  answered  to.  The  sluices  and  the  doors 


SHEAVES  163 

of  heaven  were  open,  the  wind  rioted,  and  the  floods 
descended;  the  clouds  poured  out  water,  the  wind  raced 
along  irrespective  of  the  amount  of  useful  work  its  stored 
energy  might  have  accomplished.  It  all  came  out  of 
the  infinite  reservoir  of  God  and  of  life  and  of  eternal 
force,  and  was  given  to  her  and  to  any  who  could  see  the 
point  of  view  and  understand,  however  feebly,  however 
infinitesimally,  the  significance  of  its  hugeness  to  man, 
the  immeasureable  smallness  of  its  relation  to  life — to  It. 
It  was  spendthrift,  Was  it — the  word  had  been  suggested 
to  her  by  the  sight  of  the  total  in  the  stable-book,  and 
applied  to  Hugh — but  how  could  the  infinite  be  spend- 
thrift, when  no  array  of  figures  added  and  multiplied 
could  approach  the  plane  on  which  the  infinite  moved? 

And  then  from  the  thought  to  which  the  wind  and  the 
wild  rain  had  given  rise  she  dropped,  even  as  a  bird  drops 
through  the  air,  and  the  wings  that  have  battled  with 
the  wind  are  folded,  and  it  lies  close  on  its  nest.  Hugh, 
— Hugh!  There  was  her  infinite,  and  the  more  she 
knew  him  the  more  immeasurable  became  that  which 
he  was  to  her.  She  had  not  known  that  such  happiness 
was  possible  as  the  happiness  that  had  been  and  was 
hers,  which  sprang  from  his  love,  and  the  more  she 
devoured  it,  the  more  she  Wrapped  herself  in  it,  the 
greater  grew  the  warmth  and  the  abundance  of  it.  And 
this  transfigurement  of  the  World,  this  illumination  of 
life,  was  no  thing  of  squibs  and  fireworks,  dazzling  and 
cracking  one  moment,  and  leaving  a  darkness  peopled 
with  images  of  the  blaze  the  next ;  it  Was  a  sun  burning 
steadily,  so  that  all  the  little  employments  of  life  were 
uninterrupted  and  Went  on  quietly  and  harmoniously 
as  before,  but  all  Were  bathed  in  its  light.  She  still 
gardened;  she  still  wrote  her  play,  and  the  interest 
in  neither  was  one  whit  diminished.  She  still  walked 


i64  SHEAVES 

on  the  down  and  looked  from  above  the  beech-wood  on 
to  her  red-brick  house,  and,  as  she  had  done  one  day 
to  him,  pictured  the  pleasure  and  tranquillity  of  the 
fortunate  woman  who  lived  there.  Ambrose  was  to 
her,  as  to  Hugh,  the  same  unholy  joy,  and  when  the 
other  day  Hugh  had  picked  up  a  pebble  from  the  road, 
put  a  neat  label  on  it,  "Ye  Walls  of  Jericho,"  and  sub- 
stituted it  for  a  pebble  from  somewhere  else  on  his 
brother-in-law's  table,  she  had  giggled  quite  as  sillily 
as  he  over  this  childish  absurdity,  and  because  Hugh 
had  done  it  it  Was  not  to  her  any  piece  of  inspired 
humour;  it  did  not  cease  to  be  the  deed  of  a  silly  boy. 
He  was  often  all  he  should  not  be,  he  was  lazy  some- 
times, he  Was  extravagant,  he  was  dreadfully  tactless, 
but  he  was  Hugh.  And  to  him  she  was  Edith,  just 
herself. 

It  Was  just  in  this  that  the  essential  youth  and  fresh- 
ness of  her  soul  lay.  Last  July  when  Hugh  proposed 
to  her  she  had,  unshaken  by  Peggy's  remonstrance, 
known,  as  the  compass  knows  the  north,  where  her 
fulfilment  lay,  where  was  the  road  that  led  to  the  ultimate 
goal.  Then,  too,  she  knew  why  she  had  struggled  all 
those  years  through  the  briars  and  thickets  of  the  youth 
she  had  called  "spoiled,"  why  she  had  gone  on  with 
brave  and  bleeding  feet,  and  not  sat  down  and  drank 
of  the  waters  of  bitterness.  At  the  time  it  had  seemed 
to  her  that  the  commonest  pluck,  the  most  average 
ordinary  bravery  had  been  sufficient  to  account  for  this, 
for  when  she  had  plucked  out  the  thorns  and  sat  down 
to  rest  out  of  sight  of  the  Waters  of  Marah,  she  thought 
she  had  her  reward  in  the  fact  that  it  was  still  pleasant 
to  see  the  wild  flowers  of  the  down,  to  feel  a  shuddering 
interest  in  sliced  potato,  and  to  be  sincerely  and  humbly 
pleased  that  a  little  of  what  she  had  learned  should 


SHEAVES  165 

be  able  to  touch  others  too  in  the  play  that  had  stormed 
London.  Yet  this,  all  this,  had  not  satisfied  the  spirit 
of  her  compass;  it  still  pointed  north,  and  then,  as  she 
said  to  Peggy,  "Hugh  came."  Then  once  more,  and 
more  than  ever,  her  soul  showed  itself  young,  for  though 
from  the  foundation  of  the  world  men  had  loved  and 
women  had  loved,  it  was  the  glory  of  the  Golden  Age  that 
she  firmly  believed  they  had  recaptured.  Sober,  wise, 
and  tried  by  suffering  as  she  was,  there  was  only  one 
belief  to  her  possible,  that  never  had  love  been  like  this. 
All  that  had  been  written,  all  lyrical  utterance,  seemed 
to  her  the  shadow  of  the  light  she  lived  in.  And,  such 
was  the  unalterable  miracle  of  it  all,  the  little  incidents 
of  life  still  retained  their  value,  the  garden  Was  entrancing 
still,  the  household  books — and,  oh,  heaven,  there  was 
Hugh  already  singing  that  last  most  exacting  exercise 
of  all,  eleven  notes  up  and  a  long  note,  eleven  notes 
down  and  a  long  note,  and  she  had  still  only  put  down 
"Fishmonger"!  But  his  presence,  for  he  was  sure  to 
come  in,  Was  not — and  this  still  seemed  extraordinary — 
at  all  distracting.  It  was  just  as  natural  as  the  sun  or 
this  glorious  roaring  gale;  he  would  sit  by  the  fire  (for 
this  chimney  did  not  smoke),  and  she  really  Would  add 
up  fishmongers  and  butchers. 

Hugh  entered,  and  the  door  banged  with  frightful 
force  behind  him. 

"Darling,  it  wasn't  me,"  he  said;  "it  was  the  wind. 
What  are  you  doing?  Oh,  I  say,  those  exercises!  Why 
shouldn't  you  and  I  go  through  the  'Lohengrin'  duet 
instead,  which  I  have  to  sing,  instead  of  my  singing  '  La — 
la — 'alone?  Oh,  Edith  why  Aaven't  you  two  decent 
vocal  chords  ?  Or  why  have  I  ?  I  want — I  want  to  garden 
and  Walk,  and  draw  out  Ambrose.  And  I'm  in  a  devil 
of  a  funk  about  the  whole  thing.  There!  And  I  wish 


166  SHEAVES 

I  hadn't  married  you,  because  then  there  "would  have 
been  some  point  in  my  squalling  at  the  opera.  Now 
there's  none." 

Edith  laid  down  her  pen. 

"  Shall  I  explain  it  all  over  again  from  the  beginning? " 
she  asked. 

"Oh,  no,  don't  bother!  I  know  the  tune.  It's 
'Men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep.'  But  you 
don't  weep." 

"I  know  I  don't.  Hughie,  it's  quite  disgraceful. 
You  haven't  paid  the  wine-man  for  ten  weeks." 

"Oh,  but  he's  not  the  real  wine-man!"  said  Hugh. 

He  snatched  another  book  from  the  table. 

"Fruiterer,"  he  said.  "Last  account  settled  Feb- 
ruary the  first!" 

"I  hadn't  seen  that,"  said  Edith.  "Eat  as  much 
fruit  as  you  please,  Hugh,  but  don't  look  at  my  private 
accounts." 

"And  what  about  the  wine-man's  book? "  asked  Hugh. 

"Oh,  but  it  wasn't  the  real  one." 

Hugh  had  picked  up  another  book. 

"I  say,  do  we  pave  the  house  with  butter?"  he  asked. 

"Yes.     Why?" 

Hugh  subsided  into  a  chair. 

"Do  be  serious!"  he  said.  "Peggy  told  me  that  one 
always  had  to  check  accounts  and  books  if  one  wanted 
five  shillings  to  go  on  with.  She  never  has  five  shillings, 
I  notice,  or  a  purse  to  put  them  in  if  she  had  them,  and  I 
always  have  to  pay  her  cabs.  I've  got  all  my  books, 
haven't  I?  Stable,  garden,  wine,  men  of  the  house. 
Yes.  But  here's  Miss  Tremington's  cab  from  the  station. 
I'm  blowed  if  I'll  pay  your  maid's  cabs!  Besides,  she 
always  looks  at  me  as  if  I  was  a  smut  on  her  Roman  nose." 

"I  don't  think  she  takes  you  quite  seriously,"  said 


SHEAVES  167 

Edith.  "And  she  can't  understand  the  master  play- 
acting." 

"No  more  can  the  master,"  said  Hugh.  "Treming- 
ton  cab  again.  That's  seven  shillings  you  owe  me 
already." 

A  long  silence.  Hugh,  in  a  big  chair,  with  its  face  to 
the  fire  and  its  back  to  his  wife,  thought  he  would  be 
unobserved,  and  stealthily  drew  a  cigarette  from  his 
pocket,  which,  under  pretence  of  poking  the  fire,  he  lit, 
the  tongs  being  used  as  poker,  and  the  tongs  carrying 
a  red-hot  coal.  Smoking,  though  not  actually  pro- 
hibited, was  strongly  discouraged  by  Reuss,  and  Edith 
knew  it.  But  by  leaning  forward  he  fancied  he  could 
smoke  up  the  chimney,  for  the  fire  "drew"  beautifully. 
Unfortunately  the  very  perfection  of  the  movement 
led  to  its  detection,  for,  except  for  the  noise  of  the  pok- 
ing of  the  fire,  which  was  done  with  extreme  violence, 
a  silence  so  palpable  accompanied  his  movements  that 
it  was  clear  that  something  was  happening. 

Edith  only  looked  up.  for  one  quarter-second,  and 
returned  to  her  book. 

"Seven  and  thirteen  and  six,"  she  said.  "Hughie, 
hadn't  you  better  put  it  in  the  fire?" 

Hugh  felt  singularly  annoyed  at  the  failure  of  his 
manoeuvre. 

"No,  I  hadn't,"  he  said,  "and  if  you  allude,  however 
distantly,  to  my  smoking  again,  I  shall  go  on  till  lunch." 

"Very  good,"  said  Edith,  "you've  put  me  out.  Seven 
and  thirteen  and  six " 

Hugh  inhaled  several  long  breaths  of  tobacco  smoke 
in  quick  succession,  and  coughed. 

"I'm  sure  that  isn't  due  to "  began  Edith,  when 

she  remembered  Hugh's  threat. 

"Due  to  what?"  asked  Hugh. 


168  SHEAVES 

"I  don't  know,"  said  she.     "I  beg  your  pardon." 

"This  is  the  Taming  of  the  Shrew,"  remarked  her 
husband. 

"Yes,  dear,  but  do  be  quiet  for  two  minutes  and  let 
me  add  up.  Go  on — wanning  your  hands  at  the  fire." 

There  was  silence  for  perhaps  half  a  minute,  and  then 
Hugh  threw  the  cigarette  he  had  only  just  begun  into 
the  fire. 

"Edith,  you  are  such  a  kill-joy,"  he  said.  "You 
completely  spoiled  all  my  pleasure  in  smoking,  so  I  may 
just  as  well  throw  it  away  as  not.  Oh,  do  finish  your 
accounts  and  come  and  talk." 

Edith  finished  her  addition  in  the  sketchiest  manner, 
and  drew  a  cheque  that  was  certainly  in  excess  of  the 
total. 

"There!"  she  said,  "  Berrington  can  pay  them  and 
give  me  the  rest  in  cash." 

Hugh  got  out  of  his  chair. 

"Sit  in  that,"  he  said  '"and  I'll  sit  on  the  rug  and 
lean  against  your  knees  if  you  will  let  me.  Oh,  hang! 
I  don't  Want  to  go  to  town  to-morrow,  and  I  don't  want 
to  stop  indoors  all  day.  Let's  go  out  as  we  did  in  some 
of  those  gales  in  the  winter  and  get  soaked  and  buffeted." 

A  great  tattoo  of  rain,  wind-driven,  rattled  against 
the  windows. 

"In  that?"  asked  Edith. 

"Yes;  I  love  being  alone  with  you  in  a  gale  on  these 
downs.  Don't  you  remember  once  when  we  were  riding 
how  your  hat  wouldn't  stop  on,  and  the  wind  blew  your 
hair  down?  And  I  made  you  shriek  Brunhilde's  cry?" 

Hugh  threw  back  his  head  till  he  could  see  her  face 
above  him. 

"You  love  high  winds,  don't  you?"  he  said.  "I 
think  you  love  everything  high.  Oh,  dear,  what  a  true 


SHEAVES  169 

Word  Dick  spoke  when  he  said  that  my  marriage  might 
be  the  making  of  me.  I  don't  say  I'm  made,  but,  ch, 
how  true  that  was." 

Edith  pulled  his  hair  gently. 

"Oh,  don't  say  such  silly  things,"  she  said.  "If  you 
could  hurt  me,  Hugh,  which  you  can't,  it  would  be  by 
that  sort  of  absurdity.  I  thought  your  brother-in-law 
was  such  a  sensible  man  till  you  told  me  he  said  that." 

"He  adores  you,"  went  on  Hugh,  "and  the  effulgence 
that  you  shed  on  me  almost  gilds  me  in  his  eyes.  But 
Ambrose  is  the  true  judge;  he  still  thinks  I  am  not 
wholly  serious." 

Edith  sighed. 

"Hugh,  we  didn't  have  a  success  when  Daisy  and 
Jim  stayed  with  us,  and  Ambrose  and — and  Perpetua 
came  up  to  play  with  them." 

"I  know.  Daisy  beat  Ambrose  both  in  running  and 
hop,  skip  and  jump.  And  she  broke  his  spectacles  at 
rounders.  After  all,  though,  Ambrose  got  his  own 
again:  he  repeated  yards  of  Tennyson  at  tea." 

Edith  was  silent  a  moment. 

"Daisy  doesn't  like  me,"  she  said.  "She  looks  on 
me  somehow  as  a  thief.  I've  taken  you  away  from  her. 
Shs  doesn't  know  she  thinks  that,  but  she  does." 

"Aged  ten!"  remarked  Hugh  in  a  tone  of  absolute 
incredulity. 

"Age  doesn't  matter.  You  can  be  just  as  jealous  at 
ten  as  at  eighty." 

"Probably   more,"   remarked   Hugh  parenthetically. 

"Yes,  probably  more." 

"But  she's  an  absolute  child,"  said  Hugh.  "I  never 
heard  such  nonsense." 

Once  again  the  rain  was  flung  against  the  windows, 
and  this  time  it  seemed  to  Edith  to  sound  a  different 


i7o  SHEAVES 

note,  just  as  one  night  last  summer  the  tapping  of  the 
blind  had  been  to  her  imagination  at  one  moment  the 
beckoning  of  her  lover,  and  at  the  next  the  warning 
of  the  years.  It  was  a  change  like  that  which  hap- 
pened now. 

"  But  you  are  more  nearly  her  age  than  mine," 
she  said. 

Once  or  twice  during  the  months  since  their  marriage 
the  thought  from  which  this  sprang  had  stirred  in  Edith's 
mind  and  shown  its  face  to  her.  Its  appearance  was 
always  momentary;  it  slept  sound  for  the  most  part, 
yet  just  now  and  then,  as  at  the  present  hour,  it  peeped 
out  at  her,  quick  as  a  lizard  out  of  its  crevice  in  the 
flowering  wall  and  in  again.  Up  till  now,  whenever 
the  shadow  of  it  found  substance  in  speech,  Hugh  had 
hailed  its  appearance  with  derision,  even  as  the  birds 
of  day  mock  at  the  absurd  owl  which  is  so  out  of  place 
in  the  sunlight.  But  now  he  did  not  quite  do  that; 
he  did  not  instinctively  mock  at  this  bird  of  night, 
which  was  so  ridiculous,  so  out  of  keeping  with  the  day 
and  the  sun. 

"Yes,  that  is  true,  though  only  just  true,"  he  said, 
"as  the  measure  of  years  goes.  I  never  thought  of  that 
before.  How  ridiculous  it  sounds!  It  just  proves 
what  I  always  thought  that  years  have  nothing  what- 
ever to  do  with  essential  age.  Have  they?" 

Hugh  probably  did  not  know  that  he  had  taken  this 
more  seriously  than  ever  before,  but  Edith  knew  it.  Now 
for  the  first  time,  instead  of  laughing  at  her,  he  had 
troubled  to  give  an  explanation,  to  show  her  (and  him- 
self perhaps  as  well)  that  she  was  wrong,  instead  of 
treating  her  merely  to  a  shout  of  derision.  The  question, 
though  disposed  of,  had  appeared  to  him  debatable, 
a  thing  worthy  of  pros  and  cons,  and  at  that,  for  one 


SHEAVES  171 

half-second,  in  spite  of  the  wonderful  happiness  that  had 
been  hers  all  these  months,  in  spite  of  all  the  complete- 
ness and  content,  she  felt  as  if  somewhere  deep  inside 
her  there  had  come  a  touch  of  some  pain  that  Was  new ; 
a  pain  that  was  nothing  in  itself,  unless  it  was  a  warn- 
ing. If  it  was  not  that,  it  Was  nothing.  Then  simul- 
taneously almost  all  her  joy  of  love  and  life  told  her  it 
must  be  nothing.  There  was  no  arrow  or  bolt  that 
could  touch  her  in  the  dwelling-place  where  Hugh  and 
she  and  their  love  dwelt.  By  its  very  nature  she  knew 
it  must  be  a  place  impregnable.  And  if  she  had  wanted 
further  assurance  of  that  it  was  ready  for  her. 

"Ah!  and  when  shall  I  become  ever  so  little  fit  for  you?" 
he  asked,  again  leaning  his  head  back  so  that  he  could 
see  her  face.  "Sometimes  I  seem  to  see  you  standing 
all  radiant,  all  yourself,  on  the  far  side  of  some  stream 
through  which  I  have  to  swim  to  you " 

She  laid  her  hands  on  his  head. 

"Ah,  Hugh,  Hugh "  she  began. 

"No,  it  is  no  use  your  protesting,"  he  interrupted 
again.  "Here  are  you  and  I  all  alone,  with  this  gale 
cutting  us  off  from  everybody  else,  and  since  you  choose 
to  talk  about  difference  of  age,  I  will  talk  about  the 
difference  of  age  that  really  matters.  There  you  stand, 
I  tell  you — you,  your  mind,  your  soul,  mein  besseres  Ich, 
and  I  struggle  toward  you,  you  helping  me.  Oh!  I 
so  long  to  reach  you.  It  isn't  age  that  separates  us, 
then,  it  is  the  timeless  growth;  it  is  your  wisdom,  your 
fineness  I  see  shining  above  me.  Who  has  taught  me 
to  be  able  to  sing?  Reuss,  do  you  think?  Not  at  all; 
you,  Isolde.  Reuss  knows  the  difference  himself,  too. 
He  told  me  that  all  he  had  done  was  but  the  nailing 
up  of  the  fruit-trees  to  the  Wall.  It  is  not  he  who  made 
it  flower  and  bear  fruit.  That  Was  the  sun's  Work. 


i7a  SHEAVES 

You  make  my  soul  sing,  and  whether  it  sings  in  my 
voice,  or  sings  as  I  sit  here  with  you,  or  when  I  add  up 
stable  books,  or  dig  in  the  garden,  it  is  all  one,  and  it  is 
always  singing." 

To  Edith  it  seemed  that  all  the  love  and  joy  of  this 
year  was  gathered  into  his  words  and  flamed  there  rose- 
coloured.  She  was  thrilled  and  shaken  and  dazzled 
with  it;  it  seemed  that  her  body  could  not  bear  it,  for 
she  trembled  and  covered  her  eyes  with  her  hands. 

"Ah,  stop,  stop!"  she  said;  "I  am  content.  Leave 
it  like  that." 

She  sat  there  for  a  moment  in  silence,  and  then 
uncovered  her  face  again. 

"You  are  all  round  me,  Hugh,"  she  said  quietly. 
"I  am  so  safe." 

Again  she  paused  a  moment,  and  the  safety  of  which 
she  had  spoken  again  seemed  so  impregnable  that  she 
could  speak  without  fear  of  that  which  from  time  to 
time  frightened  her,  that  which  Peggy  had  warned  her 
of,  that  which  the  blind  one  night  had  tapped  to  her, 
that  which  just  now  sounded  against  the  windows  in 
the  tattoo  of  the  maddened  rain.  It  had  lain  like  a 
little  coiled  snake  among  flowers,  but  the  man  who  loved 
her  like  that  she  could  trust  to  pull  back  the  flowers  and 
show  her,  as  he  must,  that  there  was  no  snake  there,  but 
only  a  phantom  of  hers  or  Peggy's  imagining.  For  the 
love  that  was  in  the  word  he  had  spoken  was  surely 
infinitely  stronger  than  any  fear. 

"And  yet  I  have  doubted  and  wondered,"  she  said. 
"I  have  looked  forward  ten  years  or  twenty,  and  seen 
myself  so  old,  and  you  so  young — 

"Then  you  doubted  me,"  said  Hugh  quickly. 

"No,  it  Was  not  that;  it  was  myself  I  doubted, 
though  I  have  doubted  less  and  less,  and  now  at  this 


SHEAVES  173 

moment  I  don't  doubt  at  all.  It — it  will  be  arranged 
differently  somehow." 

Something  that  had  long  been  fluid  in  Hugh's  mind, 
suddenly  crystallised. 

"Was  it  Peggy  who  suggested  that  to  you? "  he  asked. 

"No,  the  suggestion  came  from  myself,  one  night, 
the  night  after  I  told  you  who  Andrew  was." 

"But  Peggy  confirmed  it,"  asked  Hugh.  "She 
didn't  want  you  to  marry  me,  I  believe.  I  have  always 
felt  that,  and  wondered  whether  I  was  right  or  not.  I 
am  sure  I  am  right." 

He  had  sat  upright  again,  wheeling  half  round  on  the 
hearthrug  so  that  he  faced  her,  with  his  hands  clasped 
round  his  knees,  and  speaking  in  a  quick  peremptory 
voice.  Edith  felt  a  sudden  and  very  keen  regret  that 
this  had  been  spoken  of.  For  she  still  recalled  that 
struggle,  one-sided  and  foregone  of  conclusion  though 
it  Was,  when  Peggy  had  urged  her  by  all  arguments  in 
her  power  not  to  marry  Hugh,  and  though  the  sister- 
love  that  existed  between  them,  which  was  on  its  own 
level  so  strong  and  on  any  level  so  true,  had  put  any 
breach  between  them  out  of  the  question,  she  did  not 
like  being  reminded  of  that.  And  the  thought  that 
Hugh  also  knew  or  guessed  what  Peggy's  attitude  had 
been  was  also  a  matter  for  regret.  She  made  one  effort 
to  stop  him. 

"Ah,  what  does  it  all  matter,  if  your  heart  sings?" 
she  said. 

But  Hugh  shook  his  head. 

"Of  course  it  does  not  matter,"  he  said;  "but  I  want 
to  know.  Did  not  Peggy  do  as  I  say?" 

"  Yes,  she  advised  me  not  to  marry  you,"  she  said. 

Hugh  frowned. 

"I  thought  so — oh,  I  knew  so!"  he  said.     "Why?" 


i74  SHEAVES 

"For  the  reason  that  I  doubted,  dear.  Because  the 
years  would  leave  me  so  old  and  you  so  young." 

Then  the  sister-love,  so  true  and  genuine,  pulled 
strong. 

"  Hugh,  I  can't  bear  that  you  should  harbour  this  or 
lay  it  up  against  Peggy,"  she  said.  "She  wanted  the 
happiness  of  both  of  us  so  much;  of  that  I  am  abso- 
lutely convinced,  but  she  thought  we  should  not  find 
it  permanently  together." 

Hugh  gave  a  little  impatient  click  of  his  tongue. 

"I'm  glad  we  told  her  that  we  didn't  want  her,"  he 
remarked.  "Perhaps  she  will  faintly  begin  to  under- 
stand that  we  are  tolerably  happy." 

"Yes,  I  hope  so.  Now  tell  me  you  won't  let  it  make 
any  difference  to  you  in  your  feeling  for  her." 

Hugh  shook  his  head. 

"Can't  promise,"  he  said.  "If  a  person  behaves 
differently  from  what  you  expected,  he  becomes  to  some 
extent  a  different  person.  And  Peggy  is  different 
from  what  I  thought  her.  Oh,  I  have  been  just!  Until 
I  knew,  I  have  honestly  tried  not  to  behave  as  if  my 
guess  had  been  true.  But  now  that  I  know  it  is  true 
it  isn't  quite  the  same  Peggy." 

"Ah,  but  it  was  entirely  her  desire  for  our  happiness 
that  made  her  try  to  dissuade  me!"  said  Edith  in  some 
distress.  "You  must  give  her  credit  for  that.  Best  of 
all,  have  it  out  with  her.  She  will  convince  you — no, 
not  that  she  was  right — don't  be  so  silly! — but  that  she 
was  doing  the  best  she  could.  That  is  all  that  can  be 
asked  of  anybody." 

Hugh's  face  cleared  a  little. 

"  Yes,  if  an  opportunity  comes,"  he  said.  "  But  what 
nonsense  it  all  is  to  try  to  look  forward  ten  years!  How 
can  one  know  what  ten  years  will  bring?  And  since 


SHEAVES  175 

one  can't  know  that,  what  is  the  value  of  the  picture? 
It  is  purely  imaginary,  and  probably  untrue." 

Hugh  looked  up  at  his  wife,  then  scrambled  round 
again  and  took  up  his  old  place  at  her  knee. 

"Besides,  please  God,  there  will  be  a  child,  will  there 
not,"  he  said,  "calling  you  mother  and  me  father? 
Why,  it  will  be  nearly  nine  years  old  then!  Did  Peggy 
put  that  into  her  picture?  If  we  are  to  look  forward 
ten  years,  which  is  silly  in  any  case,  let  us  people  our 
picture  with  the  figures  we  hope  to  find  there." 

Edith  leaned  over  him. 

"Peggy  couldn't  have  known  that  a  year  ago, "she  said. 

"Exactly;  so  she  shouldn't  have  talked  like  that. 
People  have  no  business  to  draw  doleful  pictures  and 
scatter  doleful  images  of  thought  about  in  the  world. 
To  imagine  a  thing  is  to  help  it  to  come  true." 

Then  again  as  he  looked  up  at  the  face  that  bent  over 
him  the  love-light  leaped  to  his  eyes. 

"Besides,  what  more  does  she  think  could  be  desired 
than  what  We  have?"  he  said.  "Has  not  your  love 
crowned  me  ?  And  if  you  don't  take  that  crown  off " 

"Ah,  don't,   Hughie!"  she  whispered. 

For  one  last  moment  she  felt  an  impulse  to  look  again 
at  Peggy's  picture,  and  in  words  cold,  carefully  chosen 
words,  to  draw  it  for  him,  to  say  to  him  all  that  Peggy 
had  said,  all  that  her  own  thoughts  had  suggested,  to 
show  him  the  snake  among  the  flowers.  But  the  impulse 
passed;  perhaps,  as  Hugh  had  said,  it  was  better  not  to 
scatter  doleful  images.  Yet  something  of  the  inevitable 
lacrimoe  rerum,  something  of  the  sadness  inseparable 
from  all  human  consciousness  even  when  the  joys  of 
life  are  most  vivid,  were  in  her  next  Words.  Clothed 
though  she  was  in  the  golden  raiment  of  love,  some- 
thing still  faintly  twitched  that  mantle. 


i76  SHEAVES 

"Don't  talk  of  me  discrowning  you,  even  in  jest," 
she  said.  "That  is  a  doleful  image,  though  luckily 
an  impossible  one.  But  the  years  do  pass,  Hugh,  ther 
is  no  denying  that,  and  one  comes  to  the  end  of  the 
chapters,  and  the  'rose-scented  manuscript'  has  to 
close.  That  is  all  that  Peggy  meant,  and  in  the  nature 
of  things  it  must  close  sooner  for  me  than  for  you.  Oh, 
yes,  the  chapters  come  to  an  end,  and  what  a  pleasant 
one  will  finish  to-morrow — our  winter  and  spring  here! 
And  I  should  like  to  tell  you  just  once  all  it  has  been  to 
me,  to  have  you  so  much  alone,  all  by  myself,  and  to 
know  that  you  haven't — well,  been  bored.  You  haven't ; 
you  have  liked  it  enormously.  I  know  you  have  been 
happier  in  these  six  months  than  ever  before  in  your 
happy  life.  And  that  is  my  crown." 

She  stroked  his  hair  back  from  his  forehead. 

"Oh,  give  me  many  of  them,  Hughie!"  she  said. 
"  I  am  greedy  of  love.  But  though  this  chapter  is  over, 
the  next  is  going  to  be  even  better,  if  you  can  compare 
things  that  are  perfect.  Oh,  how  proud  I  am  going  to 
be  of  you  and  your  voice  and  your  acting!  I  can't 
help  that,  and  I  don't  want  to.  It  is  all  part  of  you,  and, 
yes,  I  know  I  have  helped,  and  I  share  in  it.  So  let  us 
read  the  dear  chapters  just  as  they  come,  re-reading 
what  is  past,  if  you  like,  but  not  sadly,  not  thinking 
it  will  not  come  again.  And  let  us  not  look  forward 
too  much.  Let  us  take  things  as  they  come  to  us — 
There,  what  a  long  speech!  If  Andrew  Robb  had  writ- 
ten that,  Mr.  Jervis  would  certainly  have  insisted  on 
his  cutting  some  of  it." 

"  But  I  am  not  Mr.  Jervis,"  said  Hugh. 

He  paused  a  moment. 

"And  I  could  not  spare  any  of  it,"  he  said,  "any  more 
than  I  could  spare  any  of  you.  Yes,  darling,  I  agree. 


SHEAVES  177 

Let  us  read  on  together,  and  not,  as  you  suggested, 
peep  forward  at  the  end.     For  who  knows?" 

All  day  the  wind  and  rain  lasted,  and  though  during 
the  night  the  fury  of  its  blowing  abated,  yet  it  was  a 
gray  and  streaming  morning  when  they  left  next  day 
for  town.  The  trees,  battered  by  the  wind  of  the  day 
before,  stood  motionless  in  the  leaden  stillness,  the 
smoke  from  the  chimneys  ascended  straight  and  Was  soon 
lost  in  the  thick  rain-streaked  air,  and  as  their  carriage 
drove  to  the  gate  it  passed  over  the  wreckage  on  the 
branch-bestrewn  gravel.  And  Edith,  as  she  leaned  out 
to  catch  a  last  glimpse  of  the  house,  felt  again  the  irre- 
vocable sense  of  beautiful  days  gone,  and  the  last  of 
them,  she  thought,  Was  the  most  beautiful  of  all  and  the 
hardest  to  part  with.  Yet  they  Were  stored  and  garnered 
Within  her,  as  imperishable  as  her  own  spirit,  hidden 
and  germinating  in  the  inner  life  of  her. 


CHAPTER  IX 

IT  WAS  nearly  a  year  since  Peggy  and  her  sister 
had  dined  with  early  punctuality  one  night  and 
set  off,  with  Hugh  following  in  a  hansom,  to  be  in  time 
for  the  rise  of  a  momentous  curtain,  and  once  again,  at 
much  the  same  hour — though  Hugh,  instead  of  follow- 
ing, had  long  ago  preceded  them — they  were  hurrying 
eastward  in  Peggy's  electric  broughham,  the  one  pos- 
session, it  may  be  remembered,  that  she  desired  other 
people  to  consider  to  be  hers.  Inside  the  brougham, 
too,  there  was  much  similarity  between  the  moral 
atmosphere  of  those  two  occasions,  for  once  again  Peggy 
Was  excited  and  voluble,  and  Edith,  with  far  more  cause 
for  mental  unrest,  was  outwardly  as  calm  and  undis- 
turbed as  ever.  Soon  also,  even  as  had  happened  some 
ten  or  eleven  months  ago,  they  got  into  a  queue  of 
interminable  length.  To-day,  however,  it  extended 
not  to  the  doors  of  the  Piccadilly  Theatre,  but  to  a 
large  portal  farther  east  in  Bow  Street. 

"Yes,  the  Education  Bill,"  said  Peggy,  who  was  clearly 
talking  for  no  other  reason  except  that  the  edge  of  anxiety 
and  excitement  is  felt  less  in  conversation  than  in 
silence,  "how  interesting  and  instructive  it  is  to  ob- 
serve the  Government  all  standing  in  a  row  and  industri- 
ously digging  their  own  graves!  So  unnecessary;  as 
if  the  Opposition  was  not  quite  willing,  even  desirous  or 
wishful,  as  Canon  Alington  Would  say,  to  do  it  for  them. 
Why  do  clergymen  say  'wishful'  and  'oftentimes'?  Is 
it  merely  in  order  to  make  their  lay-brothers  chatter 
with  rage?  Oh,  dear,  I  saw  a  poster,  with  'Lohengrin' 

178 


SHEAVES  179 

quite  large  on  it!  Edith,  I  don't  think  I  can  bear  it; 
I  don't,  really!" 

Edith  laughed. 

"I  don't  think  I  can,  either,"  she  said;  "but  for  a 
different  reason.  I  can't  bear  it  because  it  is  all  too 
divine  to  be  true.  Why,  Peggy,  before  another  hour  is 
over  the  swan  will  have  come  down  the  Scheldt,  and 
Lohengrin  will  have  stepped  from  it  and  said  good-bye 
to  it,  and — and — well,  it  will  be  Hugh." 

"But  aren't  you  anxious,  even?"  asked  Peggy. 
"  How  can  you  help  being  that? " 

"Ah,  I  don't  see  how  I  could  be!  Why,  it's  Hugh. 
I  was  anxious  enough  about  my  own  play,  I  confess — 
at  least,  I  got  past  anxiety,  and  merely  despaired.  But 
I  can  be  no  more  anxious  about  Hugh's  singing  than 
I  could  about  the  sun's  rising  in  the  morning.  It  is 
one  of  the  perfectly  certain  things." 

She  paused  a  moment. 

"And  even  if  it  weren't,  even  if  the  impossible  hap- 
pened and  he  sang  badly,  or  broke  down,  do  you  know, 
Peggy,  in  my  very  particular  and  secret  heart,  I  shouldn't 
be  sorry.  You  see,  I  should  have  to  comfort  him  and 
make  him  happy  again.  Sometimes  I  almost  Want 
Hugh  to  be  unhappy,  so  that  I  could  do  that  for  him. 
I  think  I  could  make  him  happy  again  whatever  hap- 
pened. And  he  has  given  me  so  much.  He  has  given 
me  life,  he  has  made  me  see  what  life  can  be,  and  if  a 
person  who  is  utterly  content,  as  I  am,  can  long  for 
anything,  it  is  for  that.  He  has  given  me  all — all  there 
is  in  the  world,  I  think." 

She  laughed. 

"I  remember  your  telling  me  not  to  be  selfish,"  she 
said,"  and  you  asked  me  to  spare  Hugh.  Oh,  Peggy  what 
glorious  mistakes  a  clever  woman  like  you  can  make!  " 


i8o  SHEAVES 

Peggy  beamed  delightedly;  her  passion  for  seeing 
other  people  happy  was  being  hugely  satisfied  at  this 
moment. 

"I  just  loved  that  telegram  you  and  he  sent  me  to 
say  I  wasn't  wanted,"  she  said.  "If  there  is  one  thing 
nicer  than  being  immensely  wanted,  it  is  not  to  be 
Wanted  at  all  for  reasons  like  that." 

"And  do  you  see  yet  how  magnificently  you  were 
mistaken  last  year?"  asked  Edith.  "For  if  you  do, 
I  wish  you  would  tell  Hugh  so.  He  knows,  by  the  way, 
that  you  tried  to  dissuade  me  from  marrying  him." 

Peggy's  radiance  went  behind  a  cloud. 

"Ah,  I  don't  think  you  should  have  told  him  that!" 
she  said. 

"I  was  sorry  for  it  too,"  said  Edith,  "but  there  was 
noway  out." 

Peggy  let  down  the  window  and  looked  out  for  a 
moment,  still  frowning. 

"So  that  is  it,"  she  said.  "I  knew  something  had 
come  between  Hugh  and  me." 

"Tell  him  you  see  you  were  wrong  then,"  said  Edith 
again. 

Peggy  did  not  answer  and  her  silence  Was  not  in 
need  of  interpretation.  But  that  she  did  not  think 
she  was  wrong  (since  this  Was  clearly  the  meaning  of  it) 
failed  now  to  reach  Edith;  it  could  not  at  this  moment 
cloud  her  sun. 

"And  even  if  you  were  right/'  she  said  softly,  "I 
would  willingly  pay  all  that  may  be  demanded  for  that 
which  I  have  received.  You  warned  me  of  the  long 
gray  years.  What  dc  they  matter  to  a  Woman  \vlio 
has  once  had  sunrise  in  her  heart?" 

Peggy  drew  a  long  breath;  she  felt  in  every  fibre  of 
herself  that  Edith  did  not  look  forward,  did  not  allow 


SHEAVES  181 

for  the  limitations  and  rules  under  which  life  goes  on. 
But  at  the  moment  she  felt  it  Would  be  like  telling  a 
happy  child  that  the  years  brought  heaviness  of  limb 
and  anxiety  of  heart,  and  bidding  it  therefore  cease  from 
its  games  and  prepare  itself  for  adult  life.  For  Edith's 
happiness,  it  seemed  to  her,  had  in  the  mysterious  Ways 
of  the  human  soul  taken  her  back  to  childhood  again 
with  its  unreflecting,  sensitive  joys.  These  few  months 
had  wiped  off  the  misery  and  bitterness  of  the  past,  and 
perhaps  her  spring  Was  to  follow  her  summer,  as  her 
autumn  had  preceded  it.  She  sat  up  with  a  quick 
imperative  movement  characteristic  of  her. 

"  Don't  let  us  talk  of  it,"  she  said.  "  Let  us  say  it  is 
sufficient  that  you  are  happy  now,  and  that  Hugh  is. 
It  is  stupid  to  think  unless  one  feels  one  has  to  think. 
It  is  anyhow  a  divine  gift  to  receive  without  question; 
children  can  do  it,  you  can  do  it.  This  too:  I  longed 
only,  dear,  as  you  know,  for  your  happiness  and  his. 
You  have  had,  both  of  you,  a  great  shining  piece  of  it 
already,  and  why  not  many  more  shining  pieces?  He 
has  had  no  less  than  you.  By  the  Way,  what  nonsense 
you  talked  about  giving  him  nothing  in  return!  You 
have  given  him  not  only  yourself  but  himself.  You 
have  made  him.  Anyone  can  see  that." 

Then  she  took  Edith's  hand. 

"One  Word  more,"  she  said.  "In  a  few  months 
you  will  give  him  a  child.  And,  oh,  my  dear, 
When  you  see  your  husband  looking  at  your  child! 
Why — why,  you  hear  the  morning  stars  singing 
together! ): 

There  was  no  more  of  intimate  talk  after  this,  and, 
indeed,  but  a  moment  after  they  turned  out  of  Long 
Acre  into  Bow  Street,  and  the  immediate  excitement 
of  the  evening  again  took  possession  of  Peggy. 


i82  SHEAVES 

"Oh,  we're  here,"  she  half  groaned,  "and  it  matters 
so  much  to  us  and  so  little  to  the  people  in  the  street! 
Look  at  that  footman's  impassive  back  on  the  box. 
In  a  minute  he  "will  open  the  door,  with  a  set  Wooden 
face,  and  I  shall  say  'Side  entrance  at  twelve,'  and  he 
will  touch  his  hat  and  go  away.  And,  oh,  Edith,  what 
will  have  happened  by  twelve?  By  the  way,  in  case  I 
forget,  as  I  probably  shall,  you  both  come  down  to 
Cookham,  don't  you,  to-morrow?" 

Though  they  were  in  such  good  time  the  house  was 
already  half  full,  and  Was  filling  now  with  great  rapidity 
so  that  the  alleys  and  gangways  Were  choked  by  a 
crowd  that  evidently  wanted  to  get  into  its  places  for 
the  overture.  Early  as  it  was  in  the  season,  it  Was 
certainly  going  to  be  a  crowded  house  for  the  boxes 
were  already  fuller  than  the  stalls  a  sure  criterion  that 
both  would  be  crammed  before  the  night  was  many 
minutes  older.  And  the  indescribable  glitter  Was  there, 
the  subdued  radiance  of  the  shimmer  of  silk  and  the 
harder,  more  brilliant  gleam  of  thousands  of  jewels 
all  round  the  rows  of  boxes  that  made  moving  and 
changing  points  of  coloured  light  as  if  a  swarm  of  gem- 
like  fireflies  had  settled  all  over  the  house.  And  as 
Peggy  saw  that,  while  she  stood  for  a  moment  or  two  in 
the  front  of  her  box,  looking  and  being  looked  at,  she 
felt,  despite  Edith's  triumphant  confidence,  a  sudden 
sinking  of  the  heart.  All  her  world,  all  Edith's,  all 
Hugh's  was  here;  his  peers  had  come  to  judge  him. 
He  would  soon  step  on  to  that  vast  stage  and  have  to 
please  them,  for  they  had  paid  to  be  pleased.  It  struck 
her  suddenly  that  the  artist's  life  was  an  awful  one; 
whether  he  sang  to  the  tiara-wearers  and  the  stars  and 
garters,  or  whether  in  a  music-hall  he  did  card  tricks, 
jt  Was  all  one.  He  had  guaranteed  to  please-,  if  he  did 


SHEAVES  183 

not  he  Was  a  swindler,  a  fraud.  But  while  for  them 
only  their  guinea  was  at  stake,  for  him  his  career  Was  at 
stake.  True,  it  Was  no  question  of  bread-and-butter 
for  him,  as  it  might  be  for  the  Peckham  conjurer,  whose 
failure  to  please  might  be  a  step  along  the  road  of  starva- 
tion; but  the  very  fact  that  that  stake  Was  not  there 
made  the  other,  his  success  or  failure  as  an  artist,  ap- 
pear the  more  stupendous.  For  the  moment  she 
wished  with  all  her  heart  that  he  had  not  been  persuaded 
to  appear.  But  it  was  even  at  the  moment  a  slight 
consolation  to  her  to  know  how  completely  she  personally 
had  failed  to  influence  him.  Edith  was  responsible, 
and  Edith  was  radiant. 

The  two  were  alone  in  the  box  in  the  middle  of  the 
grand  tier,  and  Peggy  drew  her  chair  to  the  front,  and, 
in  order  to  occupy  herself  for  these  dreadful  minutes, 
took  her  glasses  and  searched  for  friends  and  acquaint- 
ances. Sometimes  the  sight  of  so  many  familiar  faces 
gave  her  pleasure ;  at  another  moment  it  seemed  to  her 
quite  dreadful  that  everybody  should  have  come  like 
this.  She  Would  sooner  it  had  been  a  wet  night,  or  that 
there  was  some  great  counter-attraction.  And  she 
groaned ! 

"Oh,  dear,  I  have  never  seen  so  many  people  whom 
I  knew  together  before!"  she  said.  "They  have  all 
come  to  see  Hugh;  I  see  hundreds  who  never  by  any 
chance  come  to  the  opera  at  all.  Oh,  there  is  Canon 
Alington  in  the  stalls  with  his  wife!  They  have  got  a 
copy  of  'Lohengrin,'  Words  and  music,  and  will  prob- 
ably follow  it  instead  of  looking.  How  precisely  like 
them!  I  wish  I  could  tell  Hugh  that;  it  Would  cheer 
him.  Doesn't  it  cheer  you,  Edith?" 

"I  don't  want  cheering." 

"No,  I  forgot.     I  think  it  is  scarcely  human  of  you. 


i84  SHEAVES 

Oh,  the  lights  are  going  out.  Canon  Alington  won't  be 
able  to  read  after  all." 

The  house  hushed  and  darkened  till  sight  and  sound 
were  quenched,  and  only  the  huge  red  curtain  was 
visible.  Then,  after  dead  silence,  the  faintest  whisper 
of  the  strings  began,  dreaming  as  it  were,  of  that  which 
should  come,  like  some  beautiful  consciousness  asleep. 
The  dream  grew  more  vivid,  though  still  dealing. only 
with  the  swan  and  him  who  should  come  on  the  swan; 
it  grew  louder,  more  distinct,  descending  from  the 
remote  altitudes  of  sound  to  the  levels  of  life;  then, 
with  full  band,  with  shouting  of  brazen  throats  and  ear- 
filling  vibration  of  a  hundred  throbbing  strings,  it 
poured  out  the  tidings  of  the  glorious  knight.  And  the 
beautiful  consciousness  that  had  but  dreamed  awoke 
to  see  its  dream  come  true.  It,  it  itself,  music,  filled 
the  theatre  like  sunlight.  Then  it  hushed  again, 
repeating  to  itself  that  which  it  had  dreamed  and  of 
which  the  fulfilment  was  now  Doming  as  the  curtain  rose. 

The  tale  of  slander,  lying  and  baseless,  was  said,  and 
Elsa  called  on  the  champion  of  whom  she,  too,  had 
dreamed.  Once  she  called,  and  there  was  no  answer 
to  her  cry  that  died  into  stillness;  again  she  called,  and 
still  salvation  was  withheld;  but  when  she  called  the. 
third  time,  a  sudden  stir  of  excitement  began  to  move 
in  the  crowd  that  had  waited,  sorry  but  incredulous, 
and  the  most  dramatic  moment  in  all  dramatic  art  grew 
imminent.  One  man  pointed,  and  another,  following 
his  finger,  whispered  "A  swan!"  and  head  after  head 
turned  wondering  eyes  up  the  winding  Scheldt.  An- 
other spoke  of  a  knight  who  stood  between  its  folded 
wings,  and  the  buzz  of  the  excited  multitude  grew  higher 
and  higher,  rising  on  the  wings  of  melody,  blown 
onward,  as  it  were,  by  the  rushing  current  of  the  strings 


SHEAVES  185 

and  the  winds  of  the  sonorous  trumpets.  Far  away 
he  was  seen  on  the  winding  river,  then  nearer,  and  then 
close  at  hand,  and  the  Wonder  died  into  silence,  for  the 
miracle  Was  beyond  speech.  And  Hugh  Was  there ! 

Slowly  and  with  very  even  motion  the  swan  came 
to  the  near  shore  of  the  river.  On  it  stood  one  in  gleam 
of  silver  armour  and  pale  cloak  of  blue,  young  and  slim 
and  tall — the  stainless  knight,  the  son  of  Parsifal. 

Till  that  moment  Edith  had  watched,  and  had  felt 
in  every  nerve  of  her  being  the  growing  excitement  of 
the  crowded  stage,  the  hurrying  suspense  and  amaze- 
ment of  the  music,  and  the  thought  of  Elsa,  of  Lohengrin, 
of  the  play  with  all  the  perfection  of  this  great  dramatic 
climax  had  occupied  her  not  to  the  exclusion — for  that 
could  not  be — but  to  the  subordination  of  all  that  it 
otherwise  meant  to  her.  But  for  one  moment,  as 
Lohengrin  stepped  ashore,  it  was  Lohengrin  no  longer, 
but  Hugh,  her  lover  and  her  beloved,  and  wifehood 
and  motherhood  so  stirred  within  her  that  she  could 
look  no  more,  and  dropped  her  head  on  her  hands  for 
the  wonder  of  all  that  was  hers.  Peggy,  with  quick 
impulsive  sympathy,  just  laid  a  hand  on  her  knee  for  a 
second,  and  then  Edith  looked  up  again,  just  smiled  at 
her  sister,  and  turned  her  eyes  to  the  stage. 

There  Was  dead  silence  as  the  whisper  of  the  muted 
violins  grew  mute.  The  crowd  in  the  house  Was  not 
less  tense  and  motionless  than  the  crowd  on  the  stage. 
Hugh  raised  his  arm,  holding  it  out  in  gesture  of  fare- 
well to  his  swan,  standing  sideways  so  that  his  face  Was 
in  profile  On  his  head  was  the  silver  helmet  with  its 
golden  wings,  and  from  beneath  it  for  once  there  drooped 
no  long  yellow  effeminate  locks  that  curled  on  to  the 
knight's  shoulders,  but  his  own  dark  close-cropped  hair, 
short  on  the  neck  and  crisp  on  his  forehead.  Body  and 


i86  SHEAVES 

legs  and  arms  were  clad  in  the  close-fitting  silver  mail, 
and  from  his  shoulders  hung  the  cloak  of  pale  blue. 
Never  before  had  Lohengrin  appeared  thus;  youth,  not 
rouge-painted  age,  was  his;  it  was  no  heavy-chested 
pendulous  body,  short-legged  and  middle-aged,  that 
stood  there.  It  was  simply  a  young  man,  rather  tall, 
long  of  thigh  and  slender  of  calf,  rather  brown-handed, 
and  with  a  face  of  morning,  who  raised  his  arm  in 
natural  gracious  gesture,  as  if  alone  with  his  feathered 
steed.  Smooth,  too,  was  his  chin,  with  no  overlaying 
of  paint,  but  with  the  firm  flesh  of  boyhood ;  it  was  with 
youth  that  his  eyes  were  so  bright  and  with  brisk- 
beating  blood  that  his  lips  were  red. 

Then  he  sang,  and  it  seemed  as  if  song  was  natural  to 
him,  even  as  speech  is  to  others,  and  his  voice  came 
quite  soft  but  sure  and  straight,  as  if  a  silver  spear  had 
shot  from  between  his  lips  to  every  corner  of  the  house. 

"Nun  Sie  bedankt,  mein  lieber  Schwan." 

London,  fat  London,  just  moved  in  its  stalls  and  boxes 
and  hushed  again.  For  it  was  as  if  a  fairy-tale  had 
come  true;  it  was  surely  the  real  Lohengrin  who  spoke 
in  song,  it  must  be  Lohengrin  himself! 

Still  in  profile,  he  followed  his  swan  with  his  eyes  as 
it  glided  away  at  his  bidding,  and  then  he  turned  full- 
face  to  the  house,  and  for  one  moment  he  looked  straight 
across  to  where  Edith  sat.  He — Hugh — had  promised 
to  look  once  at  her  if  it  was  "all  right."  as  he  had  said. 
It  appeared  to  be  "all  right." 

It  is  not  only  grief  of  which  the  brain  can  be  so  full 
that  it  can  send  to  the  memory  cells  no  clear  account 
of  what  it  feels,  knowing  only  that  it  is  stunned  by  the 
violence  of  emotion  and  rendered  unable  to  do  its  work, 
tmt  joy  can  have  the  same  effect.  Thus  the  rest  of 


SHEAVES  187 

the  evening  passed  for  Edith  vaguely  in  point  of  detail. 
A  few  days  ago  only,  on  that  last  morning  of  gale  at 
Mannington,  she  had  thought  that  all  that  life  could 
hold  of  happiness  was  gathered  together  as  if  under 
some  ray-collecting  lens  into  one  point  of  light ;  but  now 
new  light  had  been  added,  a  further  completion  was 
piled  on  what  was  already  complete.  And  all  through 
the  acts  that  followed  her  mind  moved  as  if  in  a  dream ; 
at  one  time  it  seemed  to  her  that  all  the  world  of  men  and 
women,  all  the  world  even  of  angels  and  spirits  was 
round  her,  looking  at,  absorbed  in  this  incarnation  of 
the  spirit  of  music  and  romance,  while  she  sat  very  small 
and  quiet  among  them,  one  only  among  the  infinite 
multitude,  and  having  nothing  more  to  do  with  the 
silver-mailed  knight  than  any  other  of  the  listeners. 
Then  again  the  aspect  changed  altogether,  and  she  felt 
as  if  she  was  quite  alone  in  the  house,  and  that,  as  in  a 
magic  mirror,  she  saw  some  real  scene  of  human  history 
passing  in  actuality  before  her  eyes.  And  then  again — • 
and  this  was  the  best  of  all — the  mists  cleared,  and  she 
knew  Lohengrin,  that  supreme  artist,  nightingale- 
throated,  to  be  Hugh,  and  Hugh  was  hers,  and  all  the 
world  were  strangers  in  comparison.  In  those  moments 
even  Peggy  was  but  an  acquaintance,  a  moonlit  figure 
compared  to  the  one  sunlit.  It  Was  only  a  play  after 
all,  and  reality  would  begin  again  when  she,  waiting 
at  the  side  entrance  in  her  carriage  for  him  to  come, 
would  see  him  step  across  the  pavement,  call  "Right!" 
to  the  coachman  before  he  got  in,  and  sit  down  by  her. 
In  the  interval,  however,  it  was  pleasant  that  Hugh 
was  such  a  success,  though  she  felt  no  surprise  at  it. 
Fat  London  was  clapping  its  gloves  to  ribands  at  the 
end  of  the  acts;  it  stood  up  again  and  again  to  welcome 
him.  And  her  own  darling  boy  was  enjoying  it  so 


1 88  SHEAVES 

enormously;  she  could  see  how,  as  he  was  recalled  again 
and  again,  it  was  no  set  respectful  smile  that  was  his; 
it  was  a  smile  of  pure  enjoyment,  that  often  almost 
broadened  into  a  laugh  as  he  bowed  this  way  and  that. 

Between  the  acts  people  came  in  shoals  to  her  box, 
all  talking  at  once  in  a  sort  of  whirl  of  enthusiastic 
congratulation;  but  they,  too,  were  dim;  she  felt  as  if 
she  scarcely  knew  who  they  were.  There  was  but  little 
for  her  to  say.  They  were  all  very  kind  and  friendly, 
but  not  one  of  them  understood  in  the  slightest  degree 
how  utterly  vague  they  were  to  her,  how  little  it  mat- 
tered just  now  even  to  her  eager  and  kindly  soul  what 
anybody  thought  or  said.  She  could  only  think  of  the 
moment  when  Hugh  would  step  into  the  carriage  and 
she  would  be  alone  with  him,  driving  through  the  gleam- 
ing, crowded  streets,  which,  too,  would  be  so  unreal  and 
remote.  Once  only  did  her  ordinary  normal  perceptions 
usurp  their  usual  place,  and  that  was  when  an  elderly 
banker,  who  was  famed  for  wealth  and  musical  parties, 
asked  her  if  her  husband  could  possibly  be  induced  to 
sing  at  his  forthcoming  concert  at  "Melba  prices." 
She  could  not  help  laughing  at  that,  but  checked  it,  and 
said  she  would  ask  him. 

And  then  at  last  and  at  last  it  was  all  over,  and  it 
was  still  all  quite  unreal  except  just  for  a  moment,  when, 
as  Peggy  left  her  in  her  box,  where  she  meant  to  sit  for 
a  few  minutes  till  the  staircase  and  gangway  were  emptier, 
she  said,  "You  and  Hugh  driving  hcme  together!  Oh, 
Edith!" 

That  was  real.     Peggy  understood. 

So  she  waited  alone  while  the  theatre  slowly  emptied, 
and,  alone,  reality  began  to  reassert  itself,  and,  lo,  all 
the  wonderful  dream  of  the  evening  was  true !  She  had 
seen  and  heard  the  ideal  Lohengrin  in  flesh  and  blood 


SHEAVES  189 

and  voice  and  acting,  and  Lohengrin  was  he  whose  wife 
she  was,  the  mother  of  whose  child  she  would  be.  It 
was  not  a  dream;  she  had  to  remind  herself  of  that. 
It  was  all  true,  happening  now  and  here  to  her;  those 
people  crowded  round  the  doors  and  exits  would  be  her 
witnesses;  they,  too,  had  seen  and  heard.  But  all  that 
was  the  world's  side,  "there  was  the  wonder;"  the  Hugh 
who  had  driven  fat  London  off  its  head  to-night  was  but 
the  aspect  he  turned  to  the  public,  to  everybody  who 
cared  to  pay  and  come  and  see  him.  That  Hugh  she 
loved ;  but  what  of  the  other  who  loved  her  ?  That  was 
her  secret  Hugh. 

The  crowd  slowly  melted  away  from  round  the  doors 
of  exit,  and  before  many  minutes  she  went  downstairs. 
She  had  told  her  carriage  to  wait  at  the  end  of  the  rank 
of  those  going  to  the  side  entrance,  but  so  quickly  in  the 
last  minute  or  two  had  the  rank  gone  off  that  it  was 
close  to  the  door  when  she  came  out.  So  she  walked  a 
yard  or  two  and  got  in,  having  arranged  with  Hugh 
that  he  should  come  out  at  this  entrance.  From  time 
to  time  it  moved  a  step  or  two  nearer  the  door  as  the 
carriages'  in  front  of  it  drove  off,  and  it  was  not  long 
before  she  was  drawn  up  opposite  the  door  itself,  waiting 
for  the  moment  when  he  should  appear  and  step  in. 
Meantime,  all  the  dreamlike  sense  of  the  evening  was 
passing  rapidly  away;  it  was  but  a  film  of  mist  that 
separated  her  from  reality.  Already  Lohengrin  was 
Hugh  to  her,  and  all  that  was  left  of  the  dreamlike  was 
the  ignorance  she  Was  in  about  the  other  actors.  She 
did  not  really  know  what  Ortrud  was  like,  or  Telramund, 
still  less  did  she  know  Elsa.  For  she,  she  herself,  as 
she  saw  now,  had  been  Elsa  throughout.  It  was  to  her 
that  Hugh,  whether  as  Lohengrin,  or  in  those  few 
moments  of  reality  as  himself,  had  played.  It  had  been 


i9o  SHEAVES 

she,  in  her  thought,  who  had  gone  through  the  play 
with  him,  as  so  often  she  had  done  it  at  Mannington; 
all  she  knew  of  Elsa  was  that  she  had  not  been  con- 
spicuously bad,  otherwise  there  would  have  been  an 
interruption  in  the  flow  of  her  own  artistic  delight. 
But  there  had  been  none ;  there  was  never  a  performance 
so  smooth,  as  her  exterior  sense  now  recognised,  as  that 
which  she  had  just  witnessed.  And  then  there  came 
what  she  had  been  waiting  for.  A  boyish  staccato 
voice  said  "Good  night!"  to  the  man  at  the  door,  there 
were  two  quick  steps  across  the  pavement,  the  door  of 
her  carriage  was  opened,  and  Hugh  said  "Right!"  to 
the  coachman  and  sat  down  beside  her.  Then  the 
carriage  moved,  and  a  quick  arm  was  thrown  round  her 
shoulders,  and  he  kissed  her. 

"Well?"  he  said. 

She  sat  upright,  almost  pushing  him  from  her,  and 
searched  for  and  found  his  hands. 

"  You  kissed  my  hands,  you  know,  when  I  was  Andrew 
Robb."  she  said.  "Oh,  Hugh,  don't  be  ridiculous,  give 
me  your  hands!" 

"Ah,  but  what  nonsense!"  he  said  quickly. 

"No,  not  nonsense.  See,  this  is  this  dear  hand  and 
that  dear  hand!  Oh,  not  yoursr  Hx:gh,  but  Lohengrin's! 
My  homage,  Lohengrin!" 

Then  she  held  both  those  big  hands  in  hers. 

"That  is  for  Lohengrin,"  she  said.  "I  can't — I 
can't  say  what  it  all  has  been  to  me,  but  when  I  kiss 
your  hands  as  Lohengrin,  dear,  and  know  all  the  time 
that  it  is  you — 

Then  she  leaned  forward  and  kissed  his  face. 

"Hughie,  Hughie!"  she  said. 

Again  she  paused. 

"I  have  no  more  words  than  that,"  she  said  gently. 


SHEAVES  191 

"and  We  have  all  the  years  to  say  them  in.  So  let  us 
be  sensible.  Tell  me  about  it,  Hugh,  all  from  the 
beginning.  I  Want  to  know  how  you  felt  the  whole 
time,  What  you  thought  about  while  you  Were  Waiting, 
what  you  thought  about  when  the  swan  came  with  you, 
what — oh,  everything!  '* 

Hugh  leaned  back. 

"There  is  very  little  to  tell,"  he  said.  "When  I  was 
dressing  I  thought  how  frightfully  cold  silver  mail  Was. 
And  When  I  had  dressed  I  don't  think  I  thought  about 
anything.  It  Was  all  quite  blank  till  a  call-boy  or 
somebody  tapped  at  the  door  of  my  dressing-room. 
And  then  I  thought  desperately— I  thought  what  an 
idiot  I  had  been  ever  to  listen  to  your  arguments.  I 
thought  how  completely  happy  I  should  be  if  I  Was 
just  going  down  to  dinner  at  Mannington  with  you, 
instead  of  being  here.  And  then,  when  I  went  out  and 
saw  the  swan  waiting,  I  looked  upon  it  as  a  man  might 
look  on  the  cart  which  Was  going  to  take  him  to  Tyburn 
to  be  hanged,  With  everybody  looking  on.  What  Was 
going  to  happen  was  as  incredible  as  death." 

Edith's  hand  still  held  his,  and  he  felt  that  she  was 
trembling. 

"Oh,  Hugh,  I  guessed  it,"  she  said,  "and  I  wanted 
to  come  to  you  so,  and  could  not!  Yes,  what  then?" 

"Then  quite  suddenly  I  caught  sight  of  myself  in  a 
huge  looking-glass,  and  I  thought  I  had  never  seen  such 
beautiful  clothes  in  my  life,  and  wondered  Who  it  Was. 
And  then  I  remembered  it  was  I,  and  that  I  was  going 
to  sing  Lohengrin  to  you  on  a  real  proper  stage,  with  a 
band  to  play  fast  or  slow  just  exactly  as  I  wished,  and 
a  real  live  conductor  to  follow  my  lips  and  tell  the  band 
how  I  felt.  Why,  it  was  the  biggest  fun  in  the  world! 
Anything  so  heavenly  had  never  happened,  except 


iga  SHEAVES 

perhaps  when  you  told  me  you  were  Andrew  Robb.  And 
there  was  I  in  my  beautiful  clothes  and  my  beautiful 
new  swan  ready,  and  as  we  set  off  from  the  wings  I 
just  quivered  all  over  with  pleasure,  and  said,  'Here 
we  go — here  we  go!'  ' 

This  was  real,  and  Edith  leaned  back  in  the  carriage 
and  laughed  for  pleasure. 

"Oh,  Hughie,  how  like  you!"  she  said.  "And  you 
are  so  satisfactory;  you  are  always  yourself  and  never 
by  any  chance  anybody  else.  Go  on,  you  darling!  All 
my  beautiful,  sublime  thoughts  are  gone,  but  it  is  such 
fun!" 

"Well,  and  so  out  we  came  into  the  very  middle  of 
the  stage,  and  stopped  without  any  jerk  at  all.  Every- 
body was  waiting  for  me  to  begin,  and  as  soon  as  I  said 
'Nun,'  oh,  Edith,  I  knew  I  was  absolutely  in  the  middle 
of  the  note,  not  anywhere  else,  not  on  the  side  of  it  and 
not  slipping  about  on  the  edge  of  it.  I  knew  too  when 
I  had  sung  three  notes  that  they  had  gone  up  into  the 
gallery  and  to  each  of  the  stalls  and  into  every  box, 
and  that  there  wasn't  the  slightest  suspicion  of  a  tremolo 
not  even  an  aspen-leaf  quiver.  And  at  that,  when  I 
knew  that,  somehow  all  the  sense  of  fun,  all  the  'Here 
we  go!'  ceased.  It  was  hugely,  splendidly  serious 
instead.  But,  anyhow,  I  felt  all  right,  so  I  looked  up 
at  you,  as  I  said  I  would.  Do  you  remember?  Did  you 
see?" 

"Yes,  I  seemed  to  remember  you  had  said  something 
of  the  sort,"  said  she. 

"Oh,  well,  I  thought  you  might  have  forgotten! 
No,  I  don't  think  I  did." 

He  took  up  her  hand  again. 

"Yes,  the  fun  ceased,  as  sometimes  suddenly  When 
you  and  I  are  playing  the  fool  together  the  fun  ceases 


SHEAVES  193 

because  the  big  thing,  that  which  we  are  to  each  other, 
pops  out.  It  Was  the  same  then.  All  the  fun  of  having 
the  band  to  play  for  me  and  London  to  listen  ceased 
because,  I  suppose,  music  popped  out.  And  there  was 
Elsa  looking  at  me— by  Jove,  Wasn't  she  perfectly 
splendid! — and  she  and  I  had  been  given  this  treasure, 
this  golden  story  with  its  golden  songs,  to  make  real, 
to  make  to  live.  We  not  only  Were  going  to  take  you 
hundreds  of  years  back,  to  pull  up  the  years  that  had 
gone  from  the  deep,  cool  well  of  the  past,  but  we  were 
going  to  show  you  how  Wagner  pulled  them  up  and 
set  them  in  jewels." 

Hugh's  voice  had  risen  in  sudden  excitement,  and  he 
turned  quickly  now  to  his  wife. 

"And  that  Was  not  all  the  miracle,"  he  cried,  "for 
again  and  again  it  Was  not  Elsa  Whom  I  sang  to,  but  it 
was  you.  In  the  love  duel  it  was  like  something  ghostly ; 
if  I  had  not  been  so  absorbed,  so  intent  on  it,  I  should 
have  been  frightened.  I  could  have  sworn  that  there 
Was  no  Frau  Dimlich  there ;  it  was  you.  Did  you  know 
that?  I  felt  as  if  you  must  have  known  you  Were  on 
the  stage  with  me." 

"Oh,  Hugh,  how  my  heart  knew  it!"  she  said. 

Hugh  Was  silent  for  a  moment;  then  he  gave  a  great 
sigh,  and  immediately  after  a  great  crack  of  laughter, 

"Oh,  isn't  it  fun?"  he  cried.  "Here  We  go,  Andrew 
Robb  and  I,  and  everybody  has  to  have  dinner  early 
in  order  to  see  Andrew  Robb's  play  and  to  be  in  time  to 
hear  Hugh  Robb  sing.  Here  they  go  together,  trotting 
along  in  their  beautiful  carriage  through  fat  London!" 

Edith  winced  and  started;  natural  to  Hugh  as  was 
this  sudden  change  and  thoroughly  characteristic  of  him, 
she  felt  jarred.  She  had  been  so  far  away  at  that 
moment  from  all  thought  of  herself  or  these  streets 


i94  SHEAVES 

of  London,  standing  with  Hugh  in  the  innermost  temple 
and  sacred  place  of  their  two  souls,  that  she  could  not 
help  that  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling  that  came  to  her 
lips  in  a  sharply-taken  breath.  It  had  seemed  to  her 
so  wonderful  that  he,  too,  as  well  as  she  should  have 
looked  on  Elsa  as  herself,  and  the  very  next  moment 
he  had  swum  up  out  of  the  deep  and  was  splashing  again 
on  the  surface  of  things.  He  had  been  conscious,  too, 
that  she  was  startled  and  out  of  tune  with  this  boisterous 
mood,  and  turned  to  her  again. 

"Why,  what  is  it?"  he  asked.     "What  is  the  matter?" 

She  Was  not  quite  herself  even  yet. 

"Oh,  Hugh,  you  pulled  me  away!"  she  said.  "I 
Was  so  deep  down,  we  were  both  so  deep  down,  and — 
and — 

She  saw  his  face  of  innocent  surprise  in  the  light  of  a 
passing  gas-lamp,  and  her  heart  went  out  to  him  in  the 
exuberance  of  his  boyish  spirits  just  as  fully  as  before. 
It  Was  all  Hugh,  she  told  herself,  all  the  expression  of 
his  glorious  youth  which  she  loved  so. 

"I  am  quite  ridiculous,"  she  said.  "I  don't  know 
what  was  the  matter  with  me.  What  a  splendid  eve- 
ning it  has  been,  and  what  fun  it  was  too — just  that! 
And  here  go  the  Robbs,  as  you  say,  trotting  along  in  their 
beautiful  carriage." 

But  it  was  Hugh  who  was  grave  now. 

"No;  there  is  something  more,"  he  said.  "What 
about  my  pulling  you  away?  Oh,  Edith,  that  is  an 
instance,  I  am  sure,  of  what  I  said  to  you  the  other  day! 
You  stand  there  shining  above  me.  What  was  there  in 
your  rnind  that  I  didn't  understand?  Tell  me,  explain 
to  me  " 

"  But  there  is  nothing  to  explain,"  said  she,  laughing. 
"It  is  only  that  you  went  off  above  my  head,  you  dear 


SHEAVES  195 

rocket,  before  I  expected  it,  "while  I  lingered  down  below, 
still  thinking  how  Wonderful  it  was  that  We  both  felt 
that  I  had  been  Elsa.  It  was  only  that;  I  didn't  expect 
all  the  coloured  stars.  Here  we  are  at  home.  By  the 
way,  Hugh,  you  sang  quite  nicely  to-night.  I  forgot 
to  tell  you.  I  think  that  unless  I  get  some  very  pleasant 
invitation  for  next  Wednesday,  I  shall  come  and  hear 
you  sing  Tristan.  Yet  I  don't  know.  It  does  begin 
so  dreadfully  early,  and  I  hate  dining  early." 

"  I  wouldn't  think  of  coming  if  I  were  you,"  remarked 
he. 

Hugh,  of  course,  had  not  dined  before  the  opera,  and 
flew  ravenously  to  supper.  Edith's  remarks  had 
reassured  him,  but  she  Was  not  quite  sure  that  they 
had  reassured  herself.  She  felt  that  something  Was  just 
a  little  wrong,  else  she  could  not  have  been  so  startled 
at  his  transition  into  the  boyish  spirits  that  were,  after 
all,  just  as  characteristic  of  him  as  was  his  perception 
with  regard  to  Elsa. 

That  was  he ;  all  that  intense  vividness  of  feeling  and 
sudden  change  of  mood  meant  "Hugh"  to  her.  All  his 
performance  that  night  had  been  on  his  top  level,  and 
no  less  was  it  top  level  that  made  him  shout  the  fun  of 
it.  Naturally  (it  would  have  been  unnatural  if  it  was 
not  so)  every  nerve  and  fibre  had  been  screwed  up,  and 
all  his  perceptions,  whichever  way  he  looked,  Were  at 
concert  pitch.  Among  them  was  the  sheer  joie  de  vivre, 
the  fun  of  it,  the  skyscraping  spirits,  the  irresistible 
nonsense.  Yet  to  that  she  knew  she  had  not  responded; 
it  had  startled  her,  and,  in  a  way,  it  had  given  her  a 
shock.  Genuinely  and  whole-heartedly  he  had  felt  how 
close  they  had  come  to  each  other  by  virtue  of  his 
supreme  art,  and  it  was  no  transition  to  him  to  proclaim 
the  fun  of  it  immediately  afterwards.  But  it  had  been 


196  SHEAVES 

a  shock  to  her.  She  was  not  shining  above  him,  then; 
it  was  he  who  shone  above  her.  He  was  moving  there 
in  a  light  which  flooded  the  mountain  tops,  but  did  not 
reach  her  in  the  .valley. 

Yet  the  matter  did  not  just  now  trouble  her — she 
joined  him  in  a  hilarious  supper.  She  had  glorious  things 
also  to  say  to  him;  first  there  was  the  request  that  he 
would  sing  for  the  Israelitish  banker  at  "  Melba  prices." 
Also  Miss  Tremington  had  inquired  about  "the  master's 
play-acting,"  and  had  been  told  that  the  master  acted 
very  nicely,  considering  it  was  his  first  time.  The 
master  was  going  to  act  again  next  Wednesday,  and  if 
Miss  Tremington  cared  to  go  to  the  upper  circle,  why, 
her  mistress  would  give  her  a  seat  there.  But  she  must 
apply  for  her  seat  to-morrow  morning;  lots  of  people 
wanted  to  hear  the  master  sing,  and  perhaps  there  might 
be  no  seats  left. 

"Oh,  Hugh,  how  heavenly!"  said  Edith.  "Think 
of  Miss  Tremington  in  the  upper  circle  looking  at  you 
as  Tristan!  She  will  say  that  the  master  looked  very 
pale  in  the  last  act,  and  why  didn't  he  marry  the  lady? 
'And  I  didn't  understand  about  Cornwall,  ma'am,'  she 
will  say." 

Hugh  choked  suddenly,  and  could  only  wave  his  hands 
for  a  moment. 

"And  you  won't  be  there  to  explain  it  to  her,"  he  said, 
when  he  could  speak.  "Yes,  I  suppose  I  have  eaten 
and  drunk  enough.  Oh,  it's  after  one!  But  if  you 
think  I  am  going  to  bed  without  smoking — why,  you 
are  wrong." 

"Oh,  but  Tristan!"  she  said. 

"Wednesday  next,"  said  Hugh. 

She  rose,  feeling  suddenly  the  flatness  that  succeeds 
every  climax. 


SHEAVES  197 

"I  am  so  tired,"  she  said.  "I  think  I  shall  go  to 
bed  at  once." 

Hugh  came  close  to  her ;  the  climax  Was  not  yet  over 
for  him. 

"And  are  you  satisfied  at  all?"  he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No,  Hughie,  I  shall  never  be  satisfied,  I  hope,"  she 
said.  "  I  shall  always  expect  mere  of  you  than  the  most. 
It  is  the  most  now." 

Edith  went  up  to  bed  immediately,  leaving  Hugh 
drinking  gluttonously  of  cigarette-smoke  after  the  total 
abstinence  of  the  last  day  or  two.  She  felt  hopelessly 
tired,  but  Was  afraid  that  her  tiredness  Was  of  that 
quality  which  Would  prevent  her  sleeping.  But,  tired 
though  she  Was,  she  felt  she  Would  not  in  the  least 
mind  lying  awake,  for  the  pastures  on  which  her  mind 
Would  browse  during  the  hours  of  the  night  Were 
green  and  fresh,  and  there  Would  be  for  her  no  painful 
wandering  along  stony  roads,  such  as  she  had  known  in 
years  gone  by,  no  struggling  through  the  shifting  sands 
of  an  interminable  desert.  But,  contrary  to  her  expec- 
tation, she  had  no  sooner  put  out  her  light  than  she  slept, 
and  for  three  hours  or  so  slept  deep  and  dreamlessly. 
Then  she  woke  as  suddenly  as  she  had  gone  to  sleep, 
Woke  into  complete  consciousness,  and  took  up  again, 
as  if  it  had  been  never  interrupted,  the  little  thread  of 
thought  which  had  eluded  her  a  few  hours  ago,  for  then 
it  had  lain  asleep  among  the  grasses  and  flowers,  so  to 
speak,  of  her  pasture,  only  showing  in  tiny  lengths  among 
them.  But  now  it  had  wriggled  its  way  up,  and  lay 
in  a  long  straight  line,  easy  to  trace.  It  stretched  far 
back,  too,  right  back  to  the  day  on  which  nearly  a  year 
ago  Peggy  had  tried  to  dissuade  her  from  her  marriage, 


i98  SHEAVES 

and  it  stretched  forward  into  the  future  as  far  as  her 
eye  could  follow. 

Yes;  she  knew  now  why  Hugh's  sudden  change  of 
mood  had  startled  and  shocked  her.  It  was  because 
he  was  so  young.  It  was  the  elastic  spring  and  shout 
of  youth  that  had  made  her  wince — the  spring  which 
darted  from  point  to  point  of  its  happiness,  exulting  in 
each.  And  why  could  not  she  dart  and  shout  with  him? 
Because  that  elasticity  had  left  her;  she  was  so  much 
older  than  he.  It  was  as  Peggy  had  said. 

She  lay  quite  still  a  moment  while  this  was  presented, 
as  if  some  external  agency  held  up  a  mirror  to  her,  to  her 
mind.  It  was  all  quite  clear,  and  she  had  no  impulse 
whatever  to  question  its  authenticity,  and  for  the  next 
moment  or  two,  as  if  she  had  received  some  evil  news 
in  the  few  convincing  words  of  a  telegram,  she  laid  it 
down  and  took  note  of  the  exterior  trivial  details  of 
material  things. 

Outside  everything  was  very  quiet,  traffic  had  not  yet 
begun  in  their  street,  though  from  Piccadilly,  a  hundred 
yards  away,  she  could  hear  the  low  murmur  of  the 
earliest  vehicles.  But  dawn  had  begun  to  break,  for 
sufficient  light  came  in  through  the  blinds  and  thin 
curtains  of  the  window  to  enable  her  to  see  the  details 
of  the  room.  She  could  catch  the  glimmer  of  silver  on 
her  dressing-table,  the  white  shining  of  the  china  on  her 
washing-stand;  she  could  see,  too,  that  the  door  into 
Hugh's  dressing-room  was  open,  and  that  the  blind 
could  not  have  been  drawn  down  there,  for  the  gray, 
colourless  light  of  dawn  came  strongly  in  through  the 
oblong  of  the  door-frame.  And  then,  with  the  first 
movement  she  had  made,  she  turned  her  head  and  saw 


SHEAVES  199 

him  lying  by  her  asleep,  having  got  into  bed  without 
having  awakened  her.  His  face  turned  toward  her,  Was 
turned  toward  the  window  also,  so  that  she  could  see 
him  very  distinctly.  His  head  lay  on  his  hand,  his 
tumbled  hair  fell  low  over  his  forehead,  and  his  mouth, 
drooping  a  little  in  sleep,  yet  crisp  and  smooth  with  the 
firm  flesh  of  youth,  drew  in  and  slowly  breathed  out  the 
even,  regular  breath.  His  other  arm,  With  sleeve  turned 
back  to  the  elbow,  lay  outside  the  blanket,  with  the 
forearm  and  hand  extended  a  little  toward  her,  as  if, 
even  in  sleep,  his  hand  sought  hers.  And  there,  without 
colour,  in  the  hueless  light  of  dawn,  lay  the  subject  of 
her  thought;  coldly,  calmly  presented  to  her,  like  some 
legal,  unimpassioned  statement  of  the  case.  It  was  all 
undeniable:  he  was  so  young. 

Suddenly  she  found  she  could  lie  still  no  longer  with 
him  sleeping  there,  and  very  softly,  so  as  not  to  disturb 
him,  she  slipped  out  of  bed,  and  once  more  looked  at  him, 
to  see  that  he  still  slept.  Yes;  he  slept  still,  but  now 
he  smiled,  as  if  that  consciousness  in  man  which  never 
Wholly  sleeps  had  told  him  that  she,  his  beloved,  Was 
awake  and  had  sent  a  message  to  his  inert  body  just  to 
smile  at  her.  And  at  that  thought  her  heart  rose  to  her 
throat  and  beat  there.  He  did  love  her,  she  knew  that 
— that  and  the  fact  that  she  loved  him  seemed  the  only 
things  in  the  World  Worth  knowing,  and  they  passed 
understanding.  Yet  the  gray  line  lay  across  the  meadow 
for  all  that.  She  had  to  see  Where  it  Went— what  it 
Was  made  of. 

She  put  on  a  wrapper  and  tiptoed  her  way  across 
to  his  dressing-room,  for  she  could  not  think  of  that  of 
Which  she  had  to  think  with  Hugh  in  the  room,  even. 
There,  as  she  had  expected,  he  had  left  the  blind  undrawn 
and  through  the  open  window  came  in  the  faint,  fresh 


200  SHEAVES 


breeze  that  sighs  round  the  world  as  dawn  comes  with 
the  Weariness  of  another  day.  Dawn  was  coming  now, 
the  sun  rising  behind  gray  clouds  that  stretched  over  the 
whole  sky,  so  that  though  the  street  and  the  houses 
opposite  were  quite  clear  and  sharply  defined,  there  was 
no  colour  in  them — it  was  all  of  neutral  tint,  and  all 
looked  old  and  tired.  How  different  from  other  dawns 
that  she  had  seen  a  year  ago  at  Mannington,  when  sleep- 
less for  happiness  she  had  watched  the  gold  and  crimson 
flecking  the  east,  had  heard  the  earliest  fluting  of  the 
birds  in  the  bushes,  had  seen  the  lawn  below  iridescent 
with  the  dew  and  renewal  of  night,  and  had  read  into 
the  exultation  and  youth  of  nature  the  exultation  and 
sense  of  youth  that  had  at  last  come  to  her,  though  late ! 
And  now  she  read  into  the  grayness  and  listlessness  of 
the  coming  day  its  omen  for  herself.  It  was  all  so  clear, 
too;  there  was  no  magic  mist  that  flushed  pink  in  the 
sun;  there  was  no  dew  on  the  pavement;  it  was  dry 
and  gray  and  tired. 

And  so  few  hours  ago  Lohengrin  had  come  in  silver 
mail  .  .  . 

She  moved  a  little  in  the  chair,  leaning  forward  so  that 
she  could  see  her  face  in  the  looking-glass  that  stood 
on  Hugh's  dressing-table,  and  for  a  moment  her  heart 
rose  again.  It  was  by  the  hard,  truthful  light  of  morn- 
ing, at  the  hour,  too,  when  vitality  burns  lowest,  when 
those  who  are  dying  lose  hold  of  life,  and  even  the  strong 
are  languid  and  drowsy,  that  she  looked  at  herself, 
dispassionately,  as  at  the  face  of  a  stranger,  critically, 
as  if  wishing  to  see  a  haggard  image  look  stonily  back 
at  her,  hostilely  even,  as  if  eager  to  see  ruin  there.  But 
it  was  far  other  that  the  glass  and  the  cruel  pale  light 
showed  her;  no  wrinkles  had  yet  begun  their  network 
round  her  eyes,  there  was  no  hanging  of  slack  skin  about 


SHEAVES  201 

her  mouth,  no  streak  or  line  which  warned  her  that  the 
glorious  sable  of  her  hair  would  lose  its  hue.  Yet — yes, 
if  she  turned  sideways  to  the  light,  she  could  see  tiny 
shadows,  yet  how  slight,  at  the  outside  corners  of  her 
eyes,  and  between  her  eyebrows,  yet  how  slight,  there 
ran  another  shadow  going  perpendicularly  upward, 
or — were  there  two  of  them? 

"  Remove  all  wrinkles,  render  the  complexion  .  .  ." 
Where  had  she  seen  some  advertisement  like  that? 

Then  she  turned  away,  with  a  little  shrug  of  contempt 
at  herself.     It  was  not  her  face — a  wrinkle  or  a  line — 
that  mattered.     It  was  her  mind,  her  soul,  that  she  must 
keep  soft  and  clear  and  elastic.     Where  would  she  find 
an  advertisement  that  would  guarantee  her  that? 

Yes,  Peggy  Was  right;  each  year  that  passed  was 
bringing  her  nearer  to  autumn  and  age,  while  those  same 
years  were  but  bringing  Hugh  to  the  prime  and  full 
vigour'  of  his  manhood.  It  was  cruel,  hideously  cruel, 
for  time  was  so  unreal  and  insignificant  a  thing  to  those 
Who,  like  her,  believed  that  eternity  Was  their  possession; 
yet  this  weak,  puny  time — a  mere  crawling  Worm — could 
Wreak  such  awful  damage,  could  ruin,  could  alienate 
man  from  woman,  so  that  their  souls  sat  alone  and 
starved.  God  should  never  have  given  such  dreadful 
power  into  the  hands  of  so  mortal  and  fugitive  a  thing. 
And  He  sat  so  much  apart  with  His  eyes  looking  across 
all  eternity. 

It  Was  the  hour  of  loneliness  of  soul  for  her,  the  misery 
of  it  Was  incommunicable.  And  she  had  done  it  herself, 
it  was  all  her  own  fault,  and  it  was  irrevocable. 

She  leaned  her  elbows  on  the  window-sill  and  looked 
out;  dawn  Was  coming  fast,  gray  dawn,  hopeless  dawn. 
The  traffic  Was  getting  louder  in  Piccadilly,  the  earliest 
'buses  had  begun  to  ply,  and  the  milk  carts  to  rattle. 


202  SHEAVES 

Stray  passengers,  birds  of  night  perhaps,  who  had  slept 
out  in  the  Park,  moved  singly  and  furtively  in  the  street 
below,  and  for  the  moment  she  envied  anyone  Who  was 
not  herself. 

And  then  in  a  flash,  sudden  as  lightning,  triumphant 
as  the  cry  of  a  trumpet,  all  her  bravery  and  fine  courage 
came  back  to  her,  and  she  seemed  to  herself  to  take 
the  gray  line  that  lay  across  her  pastures  and  snap  it 
in  two.  She  refused  to  acquiesce  in  age  and  the  coming 
disabilities  of  it ;  she  would  not  suffer  it  to  enter  her  soul. 
Courage  and  strength  were  hers.  Hugh  was  here; 
motherhood  was  drawing  daily  nearer.  She  had  to 
meet  life  with  a  heart  carried  high,  like  a  light  at  a 
masthead — to  meet  it  with  laughter  and  welcome .  and 
by  maintaining  the  confidence  of  youth  and  its  swift 
choice  to  continue  to  know  the  romance  of  living.  And 
she  got  up,  pushing  her  chair  quickly  back,  forgetful  of 
the  sleeper  next  door.  Then  she  remembered  again, 
and  went  back  on  tiptoe  across  her  room  to  the  bed. 

But  the  noise  had  aroused  him,  and  he  sat  up,  looking 
at  her  with  dazed,  sleep-laden  eyes. 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter? "  he  said.  "  Is  it  morning? 
Why  are  you  up  so  early?" 

Edith  lay  down  again. 

"Darling,  I  am  so  sorry  I  awoke  you,"  she  said.  "I 
had  the  nightmare,  and  got  up  to  convince  myself  it 
Wasn't  real." 

Hugh  had  already  closed  his  eyes  again. 

"And  it  wasn't,  I  hope?"  he  said. 

"No;  quite  unreal." 

"That's  all  right,  then." 


CHAPTER  X 

HUGH,  as  has  been  indicated  before,  was  a  confirmed 
Cockney,  and  previous  to  his  marriage  was  accus- 
tomed to  spend  some  nine  months  out  of  the  year  in  the 
beloved  town.  Since  then,  however,  up  to  the  time 
when  they  came  up  from  Mannington  in  April  for  the 
final  rehearsals  before  the  opera,  he  had  been  as  con- 
firmed a  country-lover  as  he  had  been  before  a  lover  of 
his' town,  and  for  him  as  Well  as  for  his  wife  the  environ- 
ment of  their  life  at  Mannington,  with  its  down  and 
garden,  its  little  local  interests,  and  the  triumphant 
march  of  intellectuality  led  by  Mrs.  Owen  and  his  brother- 
in-law,  with  Ambrose  going  before  and  Perpetua  follow- 
ing after,  seemed  as  ideal  a  setting  as  the  human  heart 
could  desire  or  devise.  Their  intention,  therefore, 
had  been  to  go  back  there  as  soon  as  the  Wagner  season 
Was  over,  and  spend  the  rest  of  the  summer  as  sensible 
people  should,  breathing  the  air  of  green  and  liquid 
things  instead  of  the  thick  soup  of  dust  and  petrol 
vapour  which  in  June  and  July  supplies  the  place  of 
normal  air  for  those  whom  pleasure  or  business  keeps 
in  town.  But  Hugh,  as  Edith  saw,  was  revelling  in  it 
all — in  the  bustle  and  fuss  and  hurry  and  festival  of  the 
season — and  when  his  last  engagement  Was  fulfilled 
she  determined  to  say  nothing  to  him  about  their  origi- 
nal plan  of  going  down  to  Mannington  immediately, 
but  leave  it  for  him  to  propose. 

Indeed,  his  success — this  storming  of  London,  for  it 
Was  no  less  than  that — Was  extraordinarily  sweet  to 
him,  and  it  Would  have  been  unnatural  had  it  not  been 

203 


204  SHEAVES 

so.  He  was  the  lion,  the  desired  guest  of  the  year,  and 
only  the  very  serious  or  the  cynical,  or  the  aged,  can 
even  affect  indifference  to  such  a  welcome  as  was  his. 
London,  in  fact,  did  its  very  best  to  spoil  him,  but 
without  the  slightest  success,  and  so  far  from  making 
him  pompous  or  conceited,  it  did  not  even  make  him 
self-conscious.  He  was  frankly,  almost  riotously 
delighted  that  everyone  was  so  eager  to  see  him ;  he  found 
their  friendliness  enchanting,  and  he  danced  and  dined, 
and  Was  a  centre  wherever  he  went,  without  losing  one 
jot  of  his  simplicity.  Yet  that  to  him,  artist  as  he  was 
to  his  finger-tips,  was  less  than  the  exquisite  pleasure 
that  the  appreciation  of  those  who  knew  gave  him.  '  If 
it  was  pleasant  to  be  the  lion,  it  was  even  pleasanter  to 
be  the  nightingale.  And  if  he  Was  delighted  at  it  all, 
not  less  delighted  was  his  wife..  She  was  absurdly  proud 
of  him;  "bursting  with  pride,"  as  Peggy  told  her  one 
day  when  Hugh  had  motored  them  down  to  Cookham 
for  the  afternoon,  ending  up  a  brilliantly  successful 
drive  by  going  full  into  one  of  the  wooden  gate-posts 
and  reducing  it  to  match-wood. 

"Yes,  bursting,  bursting,  Edith! "  she  had  said.  "And 
I  believe  you  would  turn  up  your  nose  at  Raphael  in 
your  present  state  of  mind." 

Edith  considered  this. 

"Yes,  I  think  I  should,"  she  said. 

"I'm  bound  to  say  you  don't  show  it  in  public,  any- 
how," said  Peggy.  "And  really,  do  you  know,  Hugh 
is  a  very  remarkable  person.  Why,  I  could  tell  you  of 
half  a  dozen  women  who  openly  and  rapturously  adore 
him,  and  he  just  laughs,  and  sits  with  them  in  dark 
corners  two  and  three  at  a  time,  and  asks  silly  riddles. 
Now,  is  that  natural,  or  is  it  very,  very  clever?  And 
you  are  remarkable,  too,  dear.  You  just  smile  at  him 


SHEAVES  205 

in  the  midst  of  his  harem,  and  ask  if  he  is  coming  away 
now,  or  shall  you  send  the  carriage  back." 

"Peggy,  you're  rather  coarse,"  said  Edith. 

"No,  I'm  not,  but  London  is.  Oh,  dear!  did  you  see 
Julia  Sinclair  just  swooning  at  him  at  dinner  last  night? 
I  thought  I  should  have  died.  She  looked  just  like  a 
bird  of  Paradise  with  a  pain  inside." 

Edith  could  not  help  exchanging  notes. 

"Mrs.  Barrington  is  even  funnier,"  she  said.  "She 
takes  the  line  of  being  a  mother  to  Hugh,  and  tells  me 
he  doesn't  wrap  up  enough.  And  that  darling  of  mine 
thinks  they  are  all  so  kind  and  friendly." 

"So  they  are,"  said  Peggy. 

Edith  got  grave  again. 

"And  he  is  just  exactly  the  old  simple  Hugh  all  the 
time.  Oh,  Peggy!  I  almost  want  the  years  to  run  on 
quickly  in  order  to  show  you  how  Wrong  you  were.  Yet 
in  the  same  breath  I  want  it  to  be  to-day  always,  not 
to-morrow,  not  next  week,  not  next  month  even." 

This  set  Peggy  off  on  to  the  obvious  train  of  thought 
which  this  suggested. 

"  When  are  you  going  down  to  Mannington? "  she  said. 

"I  don't  know;  I  haven't  the  slightest  idea.  But  I 
can't  suggest  it  to  Hugh,  when  he  is  having  such  a 
splendid  time." 

Tea  arrived  at  this  moment,  a  fact  of  which  Peggy 
was  rather  glad,  for  it  gave  her  manual  occupation  so 
that  she  could  think  over  in  a  natural  silence  what  she 
Wanted  to  say. 

"But  you  are  quite  well?"  she  asked. 

"  Gorgeously  well !     But  I " 

"Ah,  you're  tired! "  put  in  Peggy  quickly. 

"Yes,  frightfully  tired.  But — oh!  Peggy,  it  is  only 
my  happiness  that  makes  me  tired." 


2o6  SHEAVES 

"Happiness  doesn't  make  one  tired,"  said  Peggy 
decisively.  "That  won't  do!" 

She  fidgeted  with  the  tea-cups  a  moment. 

"Oughtn't  you  to  go  down  into  the  country  and 
just  rest  and  live?"  she  asked. 

"  No;  I  am  told  to  go  down  at  the  end  of  the  month, 
and  then — not  exert  myself.  I  shall  do  exactly  as  I 
am  told  to  do,  and  you  needn't  be  afraid." 

"Then  what  tires  you?"  asked  Peggy  again. 

Edith  took  up  her  tea-cup,  and  while  she  thought  over 
what  she  would  say  made  a  natural  pause  just  as  Peggy 
had  done,  with  the  manual  occupation  of  putting  in 
sugar  and  milk.  All  the  time  she  knew  perfectly  well 
what  tired  her,  and  that  was  the  inward  necessity,  for 
it  was  no  less  than  that,  of  living  up  to  the  level  of  youth 
which  Hugh  enjoyed  without  question  or  effort,  simply 
because  he  was  young.  Her  resolution  after  the  dawn 
of  nightmare,  the  hopeless  dawn,  had  been  exactly  that. 
She  had,  by  this  inward  necessity,  to  play  at  youth. 
She  could  do  it,  and  did  it  admirably.  But  what  was 
natural  and  instinctive  to  the  young  was  obtained  by 
her  with  effort.  She  did  it  Wonderfully  well;  nobody 
guessed  that  it  was  an  effort  to  her,  and  but  admired 
the  vitality  to  which  years  brought  no  diminution  But 
she  knew,  though  nobody  else  knew,  that  the  effort  was 
there.  And  though  Peggy's  question  had  struck  to 
the  root  of  the  matter,  there  was  nothing  further  from 
Edith's  mind  than  to  tell  her. 

"  But  it  is  my  happiness  that  tires  me,"  she  said.  "  It 
is  this  living  in  a  flame." 

But  Peggy  was  not  satisfied. 

"Then  were  you  tired  all  the  time  at  Mannington?" 
she  asked. 

Edith  laughed. 


SHEAVES  207 

"Oh,  Peggy,  What  a  good  inquisitor  you  would  have 
made!"  she  said.  "No,  I  wasn't,  and  I  shan't  be  when 
I  get  down  there  again.  But  you  know  we  have  been 
living  at  rather  high-pressure  up  here  as  well,  and  I  will 
allow  that  that  may  have  had  something  to  do  with  it. 
It  is  rather  exciting  to  see  your  husband  go  up  like  a 
rocket  in  the  Way  Hugh  has  done." 

Peggy  did  not  want  to  insist  on  this  too  much,  or  call 
Edith's  attention  to  the  fact  that  she  was  concerning 
herself  about  her  sister's  fatigue,  for  she  meant  secretly 
to  speak  to  Hugh  about  it ;  a  thing  which  Edith  would 
certainly  have  forbidden  her  to  do  if  she  guessed  that 
such  a  plan  was  in  her  mind.  So-  she  slid  quietly  off 
the  topic,  seeming  to  yield. 

"After  all,  I  think  that  it  is  a  sort  of  disgrace  not  to 
get  rather  tired  every  day,"  she  said.  "One  hasn't 
done  as  much  as  one  should  in  a  day  if  one  is  not  more 
than  ready  to  go  to  sleep  at  the  end  of  it.  But  it's 
a  bad  plan  to  have  a  deposit  of  tiredness  on  board,  to 
which  one  adds  every  day." 

It  required  no  great  exertion  of  diplomacy  on  Peggy's 
part  to  secure 'a  quiet  stroll  with  Hugh  after  tea,  and 
hardly  more  to  introduce  the  subject  of  their  move  to 
Mannington. 

"You  will  be  leaving  London  at  once,  I  suppose," 
she  said.  "I  remember  you  meant  to  go  down  as  soon 
as  your  engagement  was  over." 

"Why,  I  believe  we  did! "  said  Hugh;  "but  I  suppose 
we  both  forgot.  I  don't  think  the  thought  of  Mannington 
ever  occurred  to  either  of  us.  London  is  such  fun,  isn't 
it?  And,  do  you  know,  we  are  such  swells.  People 
are  asked  to  meet  us!  And  if  Edith  got  proud  she  made 
it  a  rule  to  go  to  the  opera  and  hear  me  sing,  and  if  I  got 
proud  I  went  to  'Gambits.'  Wasn't  it  a  good  plan?" 


208  SHEAVES 

"  But  she  can't  go  and  hear  you  sing  now,"  remarked 
Peggy. 

"No  but  I  can  go  to  'Gambits.'  Peggy,  I  believe  that 
play  will  be  crammed  night  after  night  until  the  Day  of 
Judgment.  And  even  then  the  audience  won't  know, 
and  Gabriel  will  have  to  come  on  to  the  stage  and  say: 
'I  beg  your  pardon,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  but  the  last 
trump  sounded  ten  minutes  ago.'  I  wish  I  had  written 
'Lohengrin.'  ' 

"Yes — you  weren't  born  soon  enough.  But  if  you 
are  going  to  stop  on  in  London,  you  will  come  to  my  big 
dance,  won't  you,  the  week  after  next?" 

"Rather!  That  is  to  say,  unless  I  am  having  a  rest- 
cure.  Do  you  know,  Edith  is  much  the  most  inde- 
fatigable person  I  ever  saw.  She  never  seems  to  be  tired 
at  all." 

Peggy  did  not  reply  at  once.  A  whole  new  situation 
burst  on  her  at  that  guileless  remark.  She  herself  knew, 
from  Edith's  own  lips  an  hour  ago,  that  she  was  "fright- 
fully "  tired,  but  yet  Hugh,  who  knew  her  best  and  loved 
her  most,  asserted  the  opposite.  Edith  told  Peggy 
how  tired  she  was;  she  not  only  did  not  tell  Hugh,  but 
she  produced  on  him  the  impression  of  being  indefati- 
gable. And  with  that  the  purport  of  Edith's  nightmare 
in  the  gray  dawn  suggested  itself  to  her  mind.  Why 
should  she  not  tell  Hugh  she  was  tired?  Or  why  should 
she  not  appear  so  to  him  ?  .  .  .  Was  Edith  "  keeping 
it  up"?  But  she  answered  before  the  pause  was 
noticeable. 

"  I  know;  she  is  very  strong,"  she  said.  "  But,  Hugh, 
don't  you  think  people  are  sometimes  tired  without 
knowing  it?  Gallant  people,  I  mean,  like  Edith,  who 
would  never  give  in?" 

Hugh's    face    completely    changed.     The    glow    and 


SHEAVES  209 

boyishness  of  it  died  out,  leaving  the  face  of  a  thinking 
man.  Also  he  chucked  away  a  cigarette  he  had  only 
just  lit  into  the  long  herbaceous  border. 

"Go  on!"  he  said.     "Go  on!" 

Peggy  thought  "God  forgive  me  for  being  such  a  liar." 
Then  she  went  on: 

"  It  is  only  a  guess  of  mine,"  she  said.  "  But  I  thought 
to-day  that  she  looked  most  awfully  tired.  And  I 
really  suspect  that  she  is.  You  see,  Hugh,  the  excite- 
ment of  it  all  has  prevented  you  feeling  it.  One  never 
feels  tired  if  one  is  excited,  and  you  are  naturally  still 
excited  at  the  splendid  success  you  have  had.  But  the 
excitement  was  over  for  Edith  when  you  had  the  success. 
Remember  I  only  say  she  looked  veiy  tired  to-day. 
Nothing  more." 

Hugh  was  silent  a  moment. 

"Oh,  Lord,  what  a  selfish  devil  I  am!"  he  said.  "It 
never  occurred  to  me.  She  has  always  been  so  keen 
about  everything.  But  if  you  are  right,  why  didn't 
she  tell  me  she  was  tired?" 

Peggy  looked  him  straight  in  the  face. 

"Just  because  you  were  not,"  she  said. 

Hugh  stopped,  frowning. 

"She  has  been  stopping  up  here,  and  tiring  herself 
out  for  me?"  he  said.  "Why,  it  makes  me  hideous." 

"It's  only  my  conjecture,"  said  Peggy  lying  with 
extraordinary  naturalness. 

"  I  wonder  if  you  are  right.  What  a  beast  I  am  never 
to  have  thought  of  it!  I  have  often  thought  she  looked 
tired,  but  she  always  behaved  so  untiredly.  I'm 
awfully  obliged  to  you  for  having  told  me.  Thanks, 
awfully,  Peggy!" 

Then  he  remembered  another  thing  he  had  intended 
to  say  to  her. 


sio  SHEAVES 

"I  have  felt  unfriendly  to  you,"  he  said,  "for  your 
advice  to  her  about  our  marriage.  I  should  like  to  say 
that  I  know  you  only  desired  our  happiness." 

"Yes,  dear  Hugh — you  may  be  quite  sure  of  that," 
said  she  gently. 

They  began  walking  toward  the  house  again. 

"Of  course,  we'll  go  down  to  Mannington  to-night," 
he  continued.  "I'll  have  my  motor  round  at  once.  I 
can  telegraph  to  London,  and  the  servants  can  catch 
the  last  train  down.  Oil!  I  lorgot — you  have  to  get  back 
to  town.  Would  it  do  if  I  just  drove  you  to  the  station, 
and  you  took  a  train?'* 

Peggy  sat  down  on  a  garden  bench  and  began  to 
laugh. 

"  I  never  heard  such  a  bad  plan,"  she  said. 

"Plans,  plans?"  broke  in  Hugh.  "What's  the  use 
of  plans?  We  want  to  get  Edith  down  into  the  country." 

"But  that's  just  where  plans  come  in,"  said  Peggy. 
"Why,  if  you  do  that,  she  will  say  that  I  have  been 
suggesting  it  to  you  (which  is  perfectly  true),  and  she 
will  trouble  me  to  mind  my  own  business,  and  refuse 
to  leave  London  at  all." 

"  What  are  we  to  do  then? "  asked  Hugh. 

"That's  just  what  we've  got  to  make  a  plan  about. 
It's  obvious  that  since  she  won't  leave  London  while 
she  thinks  you  want  to  stop,  you  must  seem  not  to  want 
to  stop." 

"Yes,  I  see — I  see!"  said  Hugh.  "Shall  I  tell  her 
now?" 

"  Certainly  not.  She  would  instantly  connect  me  with 
it.  Do  it  about  next  Wednesday,  and  by  degrees.  Oh, 
good  gracious!  a  woman  could  do  it  so  easily,  and  you 
will  probably  make  a  hash  of  so  simple  a  thing." 

"I  have  lots  of  tact,"  said  Hugh  confidently. 


SHEAVES  211 

"Yes,  but  it's  visible  tact,  which  is  as  bad  as  none. 
The  only  tact  worth  having  is  the  tact  that  you  can't 
see — the  invisible  tact." 

The  weather  in  London  this  year  was,  contrary  to  the 
habit  of  June,  extraordinarily  hot,  and  Hugh  made  use 
of  it  a  day  or  two  later,  with  tact  that  for  a  mere  man 
showed  signs  of  invisibility.  He  and  Edith  returning 
home  from  a  concert  had  been  put  down  in  the  Park, 
to  walk  up  the  shaded  alley  by  the  ladies'  mile,  and  be 
waited  for  at  the  end  by  their  carriage.  The  rhodo- 
dendrons were  in  full  flower,  making  up  for  fifty  weeks 
sombreness  of  foliage  by  the  incredible  brilliance  of  their 
brief  blossoming,  and  the  trees  were  pyramids  of  pink 
and  red  blossoms.  The  herbaceous  bed,  too,  at  the 
corner  of  the  Serpentine  was  a  flaming  mass  of  colour, 
and  Hugh  saw  his  opportunity. 

"  Oh!  it's  all  very  well  to  say  that  it  is  a  beautiful  bed," 
he  said  in  answer  to  Edith's  commendation,  "but  it's 
all  out  of  place.  All  gardens  and  flowers  are  out  of  place 
in  London ;  and  if  I  was  the  Commissioner  for  gardening, 
or  whoever  does  it,  I  should  have  made  numbers  of  tin 
flowers,  brilliantly  painted,  so  that  you  could  wash 
and  dust  them." 

"Then  you  would  show  execrable  taste,"  said  his  wife. 
"  Why,  it  is  just  the  fact  that  you  can  turn  out  of  Picca- 
dilly and  in  a  moment  be  in  this  beautiful  garden  that 
makes  London  so  perfect." 

"I  don't  think  it's  perfect  at  all,"  said  he.  "Why, 
when  I  looked  at  that  bed  the  other  day,  I  positively 
felt  home-sick.  I  don't  now  because  you  are  here,  but 
alone  it  made  me  feel  home-sick.  One  ought  never  to 
come  into  the  Park,  if  one  is  living  in  town." 

Edith  transferred  her  eyes  from  the  bed  to  his  face. 


212  SHEAVES 

"Now  we're  going  to  play  the  truth  game,  two  ques- 
tions each,"  she  said;  "and  I'll  begin." 

"Oh,  we  always  toss!"  said  Hugh,  really  invisibly 
tactful. 

"Well,  we  are  not  going  to.  Question  one:  Would 
you  like  to  go  down  to  Mannington?" 

"Yes." 

"Then,  dear,  why  didn't  you  say  so?" 

"Is  that  the  second  question?"  asked  he. 

Edith  thought. 

"I  wish  I'd  made  it  three  questions  instead  of  two," 
she  said.  "I  suppose  I  mayn't  now?" 

"Certainly  not." 

"Well,  then,  it  isn't  a  question.  Question  two:  Did 
Peggy  tell  you  that  I  said  I  was  tired?" 

Hugh  nearly  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief,  but  just  sup- 
pressed it.  It  was  a  tremendous  piece  of  luck  that  the 
question  took  this  form. 

"No,  she  didn't,"  he  said.  "Now  it's  my  turn:  Have 
you  been  wanting  to  go  to  Mannington?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  why  didn't  you  say  so?" 

"Is  that  a  question?"  asked  she. 

"Certainly." 

"Well,  it  was  because  I  thought  you  were  enjoying 
yourself  so  much,  and  wanted  to  stop  here." 

Hugh  nodded  with  moral  purpose  at  her,  as  people 
nod  at  children. 

"Then  I  hope  this  will  be  a  lesson  to  you,"  he  said. 

Here  a  man  with  a  leather  bag  slung  round  his  neck 
and  a  book  of  tickets  came  up  and  demanded  twopence 
because  they  had  sat  on  two  green  chairs.  Hugh 
searched  his  pockets  in  vain  for  any  coin,  and  Edith 
was  equally  destitute.  So  they  had  to  get  up  and  move 


SHEAVES  213 

on,  underneath  a  searching  and  scornful  eye,  which 
moved  Hugh  to  sudden  and  passionate  expostulation. 

"Don't  look  at  me  like  that,"  he  said.  "I  haven't 
got  any  money,  and  I  didn't  know  they  were  your 
chairs." 

Edith  laughed  silently  and  hopelessly  at  this,  and 
they  continued  their  walk. 

"Oh!  and  we  shall  be  able  to  sit  in  our  own  garden 
without  paying  a  penny  to  anybody,"  he  said.  "  Edith, 
how  heavenly  it  will  be  looking!  Do  you  remember 
the  last  day  there — how  the  sky  wept  and  howled? 
Let's  go  down  at  once,  this  evening." 

"But  we  are  dining  out,  aren't  we?" 

"Yes,  but  so  we  are  to-morrow  and  the  next  day, 
and  for  weeks.  I'm  ill — you  are  ill;  we  are  all  ill." 

But  Edith  maintained  that  there  was  a  certain  decency 
to  be  observed,  and  it  was  not  till  three  days  later  that 
they  left  town.  And  if,  during  those  three  days,  Hugh 
so  abandoned  himself  to  the  crowded  festivities  of  June 
that  sometimes  she  almost  wondered  if  he  could  be 
home-sick  for  the  country,  she,  on  the  other  hand,  felt 
so  inspirited  by  the  thought  of  getting  away  from  these 
same  festivities,  that  he  sometimes  wondered  whether 
Peggy  had  been  right,  when  he  saw  the  animation  of 
her  enjoyment.  Thus  they  were  both  acting  a  part, 
and  Peggy,  that  arch-conspirator,  observed  with  extraor- 
dinary complacency  the  result  of  her  machinations. 

The  arch-conspirator,  in  fact,  was  delighted  when 
they  left  London — a  fact  that  she  gathered  only  second- 
hand because  they  did  not  appear  at  a  big  party  she 
gave  that  evening.  Indeed,  from  the  evidence  that 
showed  on  the  surface,  she  was  more  than  half-inclined 
to  think  that  she  had  been  really  wrong,  utterly  astray 
in  disapproving  of  the  marriage.  A  year  later,  anyhow, 


2i4  SHEAVES 

here  was  Edith  tiring  herself  out  and  concealing  the 
fact  with  the  utmost  success  from  her  husband,  so  that 
he  should  not  be  curtailed  of  his  London  days,  which 
he  enjoyed  with  all  the  exuberance  of  his  youth  and  his 
success;  while  he,  on  the  other  hand,  on  the  first  hint  of 
his  wife's  fatigue  went  away,  merely  with  self-cursing 
at  his  own  slowness  of  perception,  into  the  country. 
Whatever  structure  might  be  reared,  there  was  no  doubt 
about  the  foundation:  each  was  devoted  to  the  other, 
and  each  had  shown  an  instantaneous  and  instinctive 
necessity  to  sink  self  for  the  other's  sake. 

Yes,  perhaps  she  was  altogether  wrong;  a  year  ago, 
had  Peggy  been  compelled  to  forecast  the  future  as  she 
saw  it  then,  it  would  have  been  a  very  different  future 
to  that  which  was  now  present,  and  to  the  promise  of 
the  present.  The  two  had  spent  six  months  at  Manning- 
ton  alone,  and  the  upshot  was  this  mutual  devotion. 
The  disruption  of  age  which,  according  to  the  measure 
of  years,  existed  between  them,  had  shown  no  sign  of 
wider  tearing.  Indeed,  instead,  Hugh  had  grown  so 
much  more  manly,  so  much  less  boyish,  while,  if  anything 
Edith  had  grown  younger.  Instead  of  her  acquiescence 
in  the  minor  joys  of  life,  the  pleasure  of  seed-time  and 
flower,  the  pleasure  in  the  river  and  the  downs,  the 
pleasure  in  the  microscopic  intrigues  of  Mannington, 
which  a  year  ago  had  been  sufficient  to  enable  her  to 
look  forward  to  a  quiet,  uneventful  future  which  should 
still  be  full  of  the  appropriate  enjoyments  of  middle-age, 
she  had  recaptured  youth.  All  the  tenderness  for  green 
and  living  things  (in  which  class,  it  must  be  feared, 
Peggy  put  Canon  Alington,  his  wife,  Perpetua,  and 
Ambrose)  was  still  there,  but  love  had  come,  too — fresh, 
seething,  effervescent  love.  And  on  Hugh's  side  there 
was  no  less.  He,  too,  cursing  at  his  blind  selfishness. 


SHEAVES  215 

had  gone  down  in  mid-season  to  Mannington  because 
Edith  was  tired. 

"Bless  him!"  said  Peggy,  and  in  the  same  breath 
she  explained  to  some  Serene  Transparency  that  her 
brother-in-law  was  not  going  to  sing,  unfortunately, 
because  among  other  reasons  he  did  not  happen  to  be 
present. 

Peggy  had  done  this  sort  of  thing — standing,  that  is 
to  say,  at  the  top  of  a  staircase,  while  names  were 
shouted  out  to  her — so  often  that  the  mere  mechanism 
of  "receiving"  occupied  her  thoughts  very  little,  and 
her  real  thinking  self  was  left  free  to  pursue  the  windings 
of  its  ways  unhindered. 

There  were  many  things  about  Hugh  and  Edith  that 
seemed  to  her  to  be  matters  for  that  pleasant  smile  which 
was  so  often  on  her  face.  The  year,  she  allowed,  did  not 
seem  to  have  emphasised  the  difference  of  their  age, 
but  rather  to  have  diminished  it.  They  were  devoted 
to  each  other,  and,  please  God,  before  many  weeks  were 
over  Edith  would  see  her  husband  with  her  first-born 
in  his  arms.  Yet  her  shrewdness  was  not  quite  content: 
it  was  like  some  wise  old  hound  of  the  hearth  that  is 
restless,  sometimes  pricking  an  uneasy  ear,  sometimes 
looking  out  with  a  whine  at  the  gathering  dusk.  But 
she  knew  the  cause  of  her  uneasiness,  and  surely  it  was 
a  very  little  thing,  for  it  was  only  that  Edith  had  pro- 
duced the  effect  on  Hugh  of  being  indefatigable,  whereas 
in  reality  she  was  very  tired.  She  was  keeping  it  up; 
she  was  feeling  her  age  while  she  was  ceaseless  and 
successful  in  her  efforts  to  conceal  it  from  him.  Did 
she,  then,  fear  exactly  what  had  prompted  Peggy  to 
dissuade  her  from  this  marriage?  The  year  that  had 
gone  had  brought  great  happiness  to  both,  the  year  to 
come  might  bring  more.  But  would  it  bring  more  of 


2i6  SHEAVES 

this,    this    difficulty    which    must    grow    greater    with 
years  ? 

Hugh  and  Edith  had  gone  down  to  Mannington  by 
motor,  and  even  to  the  confirmed  Cockney  there  appeared 
to  be  certain  points  about  the  country  in  this  month  of 
buttercup  and  briar-rose.  Until  after  they  had  passed 
Goring  their  road  led  through  the  delectable  lowlands 
of  the  Thames,  with  glimpses  of  the  silver  wood- 
embowered  river,  and  the  sense  of  green  and  liquidness 
so  characteristic  of  Peggy's  home  at  Cookham.  But  soon 
after  the  ascent  began,  and  as  the  car  climbed  on  its 
second  speed  the  big  hill  that  casts  Thames  valley  below 
it,  a  breath  of  livelier  air  assailed  them.  For  the  thick 
lush  growth  of  the  valley,  a  more  austere  greenness 
welcomed  their  home-coming.  Thick  meadows,  golden 
with  buttercup,  and  spired  with  meadow-sweet,  no 
longer  enframed  the  flying  riband  of  the  road.  The 
copses  and  elm-pointed  hedgerows  were  left  behind,  and 
seen  as  from  some  eminence  of  balloon,  and  instead 
the  empty  ball-room  of  the  downs,  where  fairies  dance  in 
rings  of  emerald  green,  and  the  yellowing  grass  of  the 
chalk-hills  bordered  their  way.  Now  and  again,  with 
a  rest  for  the  racing  engines,  they  would  descend  into 
the  country  of  the  brir,r-rose  and  the  dense  hedgerow 
again,  but  as  often  with  the  grate  of  the  low-speed  they 
climbed  higher  yet,  till  the  Wiltshire  downs  lay  round 
and  held  them  like  the  interlacing  of  the  strong,  braced 
muscles  of  the  earth.  Hill  after  hill  huddled  into  the 
sunset,  flocks  of  sheep  driven  westward  toward  the  folds 
of  eventide,  and  at  last  they  reached  the  top  of  the  high 
ridge  from  which  descent  began  again  into  the  valley 
of  the  upper  waters  of  the  Kennet.  On  each  side 
stretched  the  great  empty  downs  over  which  blew, 
unbreathed  and  untainted,  the  cool  thin  air  of  the 


SHEAVES  217 

heights,  and  Edith,  with  head  thrown  back,  let  it  stream 
into  her  lungs,  so  that  it  seemed  to  be  flowing  through 
her.  But  her  heart  led  her  eyes  onward,  and  there, 
three  hundred  feet  below  them  and  half  a  dozen  miles 
away,  she  could  see  the  happy  valley  of  her  home  and 
her  heart,  where  all  last  winter  she  had  lived  in  Indian 
summer.  There  was  the  loop  of  the  river  outside  Man- 
nington,  lying  like  a  silver  thread  in  the  richer  green  of 
its  water-meadows,  and  there  were  the  trees,  small  as 
the  vegetation  of  a  child's  box  of  toys,  which  held  her 
house.  Mannington  itself,  nestling  in  a  wrinkle  at  the 
base  of  the  hills,  was  invisible,  but  she  could  see  her  own 
house,  standing  outside  the  town,  and  the  gray  pro- 
tective tower  of  St.  Olaf's.  And  at  the  sight  the  past 
surged  and  bubbled  in  her  heart  like  wine. 

Just  on  the  top  of  the  ridge  Hugh,  who  had  been 
driving  with  the  chauffeur  by  him  while  Edith  sat 
behind,  stopped  the  car.  She,  of  course,  made  the  usual 
remark: 

"Oh!  what  has  gone  wrong?"  she  asked. 

"Nothing.  It's  running  as  sweet  as  barley-sugar. 
But  we're  at  the  top.  We  shall  just  toboggan  all  the 
way  down.  Look,  there  is  the  loop  of  the  river  and  the 
house." 

Hugh  jumped  out  on  to  the  road. 

"Through  pleasures  and  palaces  though  we  may 
roam,"  he  remarked,  "there's  no  place  like  Chalkpits. 
I'm  going  to  come  and  sit  behind  with  you.  How  clean 
and  empty  it  all  is!  Just  think  of  the  wood-dust  and 
the  smell  and  the  crowd  of  Piccadilly  at  this  hour! 
Yes,  Dennison,  you  drive,  please!" 

Hugh  stepped  over  the  low  door  into  the  body  of  the 
car,  and  sat  down  by  Edith,  while  the  car  gathered 
speed  again.  Soon  they  came  to  the  top  of  the  long 


2i8  SHEAVES 

incline  that  led  without  break  down  to  their  very  gates, 
and  the  driver  stopped  the  engines  and  in  silence  they 
slid  down  the  empty,  unhedged  road,  like 'some  great 
bird  dropping  through  the  viewless  slopes  of  air  toward 
its  nest.  Every  moment  Edith's  content  broadened 
and  deepened;  here  in  the  gentler  activities  of  the 
country,  in  long  garden-hours,  in  the  absence  of  crowds, 
in  days  spent  quietly,  and  nights  that  did  not  begin 
with  dawn,  she  felt  that  there  would  be  no  need  of  mak- 
ing those  continuous  efforts,  which  Hugh  must  never 
know  to  be  efforts,  and  which  had  so  tired  her.  They 
had  tired  her  body  and  mind  alike ;  the  effort  had  been 
physically  exhausting,  but  the  mental  force,  the  will- 
power to  make  them  appear  spontaneous,  the  natural 
expression  of  an  abundant  vitality  had  been  even  more 
tiring.  And  now  the  thought  that  they  and  all  need 
of  them  was  over,  unloosened  from  her  neck  completely 
for  the  first  time  those  fingers  of  nightmare  which  had 
touched  her  on  that  morning  of  gray  dawn,  and  though 
but  lightly  pressed  had  always  been  there.  Often  indeed 
their  touch  had  been  scarcely  perceptible,  but  she  had 
known  all  those  tiring  weeks  of  London  that  had  fol- 
lowed, that  at  any  moment  they  might  tighten  to  a 
strangling  hold.  She  had  fought  and  wrestled  with 
them  incessantly  and  successfully,  in  so  far  that  she  had 
not  yielded  an  inch,  and  that  Hugh  had  never  so  much  as 
suspected  that  they  were  there.  But  now,  when  they 
had  stopped  at  the  top  of  the  ridge,  when  home  came 
in  sight,  and  Hugh  climbed  in  beside  her,  it  seemed  that 
the  possession  dropped  off  her,  and  that  they  left  it 
behind  on  the  road,  a  malignant  little  figure,  siknt,  and 
still  watching  them  as  they  bowled  down  the  smooth 
incline,  but  unable  to  come  further,  exorcised  by  the 
sight  of  the  home  in  which  it  had  never  yet  shown  its 


SHEAVES  219 

face.  ~  And  as  a  bend  in  the  road  cut  them  off  from  the 
sight  of  the  ridge  where  they  seemed  to  have  left  it,  she 
turned  to  Hugh  with  a  sigh  of  utter  content. 

"Oh  Hughie,  what  a  home-coming!"  she  said.  "I 
like  to  think  that  the  trees  are  all  decked  out  in  their 
midsummer  clothes  to  receive  us,  and  the  sun  has  been 
specially  polished  up  to  welcome  us.  Oh!  and  there's 
the  copse  above  which  we  climbed  one  morning,  when 
I  told  you  who  Andrew  Robb  was.  Do  you  remember? " 

"No,"  said  Hugh  gravely.  "And  there  is  the  terrace 
where  I  told  you  something  the  next  morning,  and  I 
can't  remember  what  that  was,  either." 

"And  here's  the  motor-car  in  which  I  tell  you  that 
there  now  sits  the  silliest  boy  in  the  world!"  remarked 
his  wife. 

It  was  within  a  week  of  midsummer,  and  after  they 
had  dined  they  strolled  out  again  into  the  garden  to 
find  that  the  reflections  of  sunset  still  lingered  in  the 
west,  in  bars  and  lines  of  crimson  cloud  floating  like 
burning  islands  on  a  lake  of  saffron  yellow.  In  that 
solemn  and  intense  light  everything  seemed  to  glow 
with  a  radiance  of  its  own:  the  huge,  sunburned  shoul- 
der of  the  down  above  them  seemed  lit  from  within  by 
some  living  flame  and  smouldered  in  the  still  evening 
air.  An  intenser  green  than  ever  the  direct  sunlight 
kindled  burned  in  the  towers  of  elm,  and  westward 
the  river  lay  in  pools  of  crimson.  Then  gradually,  but 
in  throbs  and  layers  of  darkness,  the  night  began  to  flow 
like  some  clear  incoming  tide  over  the  scene,  drinking 
up  the  colours,  as  Edith  had  seen  it  once  at  Cookham, 
like  some  shy,  wild  beast.  Stars  were  lit  in  the  remote 
zenith,  and  again  over  the  water-meadows  below  the 
skeins  of  mist  spread  their  diaphanous  expanses.  And 


220  SHEAVES 

in  the  soft,  confidential  dusk  Edith  spoke  of  the  event 
which  was  coming  to  the  father  of  her  child.  New  secrets 
of  her  woman's  sweet  soul  were  given  him;  one  thing 
only  she  kept  back,  that  which  Peggy  had  guessed,  and 
was  even  now  thinking  of  as  the  two  walked  gently  up 
and  down  the  garden-paths  between  the  fragrance  of 
the  night-scented  beds. 

"And  it  will  be  then,"  she  said,  "that  our  souls  will 
be  absolutely  one,  and  I  think  it  is  that  more  than  any- 
thing which  a  first-born  child  means  to  its  mother.  At 
least,  so  it  seems  to  me.  I  cannot  imagine  two  people 
being  nearer  to  each  other  than  we  are,  dear,  but  I 
know  we  shall  be  nearer  yet.  Hughie,  I  want  you  to 
promise  me  one  thing." 

"It  is  promised." 

"That  you  won't  be  afraid,  you  won't  be  nervous 
about  it.  That  would  just  blunt  the  edge  of  the  joy 
that  these  few  weeks  of  waiting  hold  for  me,  if  I  thought 
that  anxiety  and  suspense  were  to  be  yours  just  when 
my  joy  was  being  fulfilled." 

"Ah!  but  how  can  I  help —  "  began  he. 

"It  is  that  you  have  promised  to  help.  There  is 
nothing  to  fear.  I  know  that  in  a  way  that  I  can't 
explain  to  you — the  knowledge,  somehow,  is  bone  of 
my  bone.  I  must  see  you  with  my  child  in  your  arms. 
That  is  God's  will.  And  I  want  nobody  to  be  here 
except  you — not  Peggy  even.  I  must  tell  Peggy,  and 
I  hope  she  won't  think  it  very  selfish  or  unkind  of  me. 
But  I  don't  want  anybody  else  but  you." 

Edith  laughed. 

"Perhaps  we  will  allow  her  to  stay  at  Canon 
Alington's,"  she  added. 

She  stopped,  and  pointed  at  a  white  garden  seat  that 
glimmered  in  the  dusk. 


SHEAVES  221 

"I  sat  down  there  that  morning  and  cried,"  she  said. 
"I  was  frightened,  I  think,  at  the  happiness  that  was 
coming  to  me.  Hughie,  I  could  almost  sit  down  there 
again  now  and  cry.  But  this  time  your  arms  would 
be  round  me,  and  so  I  could  not  cry  long.  Also,  I  am 
getting  used  to  happiness.  It  was  a  stranger  to  me  then, 
and — well,  happiness  is  all  right  when  you  know  it,  but 
you've  got  to  know  it  first." 

Then  she  turned  and  faced  him,  and  took  both  his 
hands  in  hers. 

"  My  man!  "  she  said. 


CHAPTER  XI 

CANON  ALINGTON  had  just  returned  from  a  ten 
days'  holiday,  which  he  had  spent  in  yachting 
in  the  calm  and  pleasant  waters  of  the  Solent.  He 
had  been  in  extreme  health  and  vigour  before  he  started, 
but  when  he  came  back  a  week  after  Hugh  and  Edith 
had  come  down  to  Mannington  again,  he  felt  it  had 
quite  set  him  up.  His  wife  had  written  to  him  every 
day  during  his  absence,  giving  news  of  Ambrose  and 
Perpetua,  and  the  sweet  peas  and  had  mentioned  the 
arrival  of  the  Graingers  This  was  a  propos  of  the 
Literific,  as  it  was  now  quite  generally  called  by  the 
members  of  the  Society,  and  Mrs.  Grainger,  who  with  her 
husband  had  been  unanimously  elected  in  the  course  of 
the  last  winter,  had  promised  to  read  them  a  paper 
at  their  June  meeting,  to  which  the  members  looked 
forward  very  much,  since  it  was,  of  course,  widely 
known  that  she  was  the  author  of  "Gambits,"  and 
something  very  advanced  might  be  expected. 

The  Canon  had  arrived  late  on  Saturday  evening, 
and  he  and  his  wife  had  had  a  great  deal  to  talk  about. 
His  life  on  the  sea  had  made  quite  a  sailor  of  him,  and 
when  they  sat  in  his  study  after  dinner,  he  had  been 
distinctly  nautical.  The  double  herbaceous  bed,  lying 
on  each  side  of  the  path,  for  instance,  had  been  under 
discussion,  and  when  Canon  Alington  asked  whether 
the  delphiniums  on  the  left  of  the  path  were  getting  on 
well,  he  alluded  to  the  left  as  the  port  side.  He  cor- 
rected her,  too,  about  the  position  of  a  purple  clematis 
whose  health  had  been  indifferent  when  he  went  away. 


SHEAVES  223 

There  were  several  climbing  up  the  trellis  work  behind 
the  bower,  but  the  starboard  clematis  was  the  one  he 
was  anxious  about.  "Just  close  to  the  gate,"  he  said — 
"forward  on  the  starboard.  I  shall  have  a  lot  of  lee- 
way to  make  up  next  week.  And  is  everything  a-low 
and  aloft  drawing  well?" 

Agnes  moved  from  the  sofa  where  she  sat  to  a  chair 
close  at  his  elbow. 

"Ah!  that's  more  ship-shape,  dear,"  said  Canon 
Alington.  Now,  do  you  know,  though  it  all  looks  so 
smooth,  hasn't  the  glass  fallen  with  you,  somehow, 
Agnes,  since  I  went  away?  But  your  skipper  is  ready, 
dear;  give  him  his  orders." 

"I  am  rather  troubled,"  said  she. 

"I  knew  it.     Now,  what  about?" 

"About  Edith.  She  was  going  to  read  a  paper,  you 
know,  next  week  at  the  Literific." 

"And  can't  she?"  asked  Dick,  searching  in  his  mind 
for  a  subject  on  which  he  might  be  able  to  "  knock  them 
up  something"  to  take  the  place  of  Edith's  paper.  He 
found,  even  before  Agnes  answered,  that  the  Literific 
need  have  no  anxiety  as  to  a  postponed  meeting,  for  he 
had  enjoyed  many  hours  of  fruitful  meditation  on  the 
yacht. 

"Yes,  she  can.  That  is  just  it,"  said  Agnes.  "She 
has  told  me  what  the  subject  of  the  paper  is  to  be. 
Oh,  Dick " 

Canon  Alington  held  up  his  hand  to  stop  her.  It  was 
a  rule  of  the  Literific  that  the  subject  of  the  paper  should 
not  be  public  property  until  the  notice  of  the  meeting 
was  sent  out  by  the  cecretary,  who  was  Mrs.  Alington. 
Consequently  until  the  Canon  received  his  card  (headed 
by  a  facsimile  of  an  Athenian  coin  with  the  owl  of  Pallas 
lithographed  on  it),  bearing  in  his  wife's  neat  hand- 


224  SHEAVES 

writing  the  date  of  the  meeting,  the  name  of  the  lecturer, 
and  the  subject  of  the  lecture,  he  had  no  business  to 
know  what  it  was  to  be.  So  he  held  up  his  hand. 

"You  have  not  sent  out  the  cards  yet?"  he  asked. 

"No." 

"Then  I  don't  think  you  must  tell  me  what  the 
subject  is." 

Mrs.  Alington  looked  more  troubled,  and  more  like 
Ambrose.  "But  I  do  not  think  I  agree,"  she  said. 
"What  was  your  phrase  two  Sundays  ago  about  the 
final  test  of  what  we  should  do  in  difficulties,  'how  we 
should  put  it  to  the  lodestone  of  conscience." 

"No,  dear,  touchstone." 

"Touchstone,  yes.  Well,  I  have  put  it  to  the  touch- 
stone of  conscience,  and  my  conscience  tells  me  that  I 
ought  to  consult  you  about  it.  I  don't  think  it  is  pos- 
sible for  the  Literific  to  assemble  and  hear  Mrs.  Grainger 's 
paper." 

Canon  Alington  looked  up  in  surprise,  and  his  wife 
instantly,  and  correctly,  interpreted  the  look. 

"Yes,  I  can't  call  her  Edith  on  this  point,"  she  said. 
"Personally,  I  should  not  think  of  going  to  hear  it,  nor, 
I  am  sure,  would  you.  Now,  the  notices  must  go  out  on 
Monday,  and  if  once  they  go  out  I  don't  see  where  it 
will  all  end.  They  mustn't  go  out — all  Mannington 
mustn't  know  the  subject  on  which  Mrs.  Grainger  pro- 
poses to  read  to  us.  Besides,  no  discussion  could  be 
possible  on  the  subject,  r,nd  discussion  is  one  of  the  main 
objects  of  our  meetings,  is  it  not?" 

Canon  Alington  rose,  and  in  silence  lit  a  pipe  of  half- 
awakened  bird's-eye. 

"This  is  very  serious,"  he  said.  "  I  take  it  for  granted 
you  are  not  overestimating  the  unseaworthiness  of  this 
paper.  For  such  a  thing  has  never  happened  before, 


SHEAVES  225 

that  we  should  find  a  member  of  our  Literific  proposing 
to  read  on  a  subject  of  which  we  should  not  like  our 
wives  and  daughters  to  listen  to." 

"Nor  would  your  wife  like  her  husband  to  listen  to 
it,"  said  Agnes  with  sudden  energy. 

Canon  Alington  did  not  reply  for  a  moment,  for  he 
was  putting  the  case  to  the  touchstone  of  conscience. 
The  secretary's  position  in  the  society,  he  knew,  was  a 
confidential  one;  yet  if  Agnes,  with  her  scrupulous  sense 
of  honour,  still  wished  to  tell  him,  might  he  not  be 
choosing  the  greater  of  two  evils  if  he  refused  to  hear? 
He  knew  also  that  she  was  as  broad-minded  as  himself — 
it  was  not  in  the  least  likely  that  she  should  feel  like 
this  if  there  was  no  adequate  cause. 

He  came  and  sat  down  by  her  again. 

"I  have  made  up  my  mind,"  he  said.  "I  think  it  is 
my  duty,  both  as  your  husband  and  as  the  guardian  of 
the  spiritual — Yet  I  don't  know.  It  is  very  difficult." 

"It  comes  to  this,  then,"  said  his  wife,  "that  I  must 
resign  the  secretaryship.  Because  I  will  not  send  these 
notices  out.  I  will  not  sign  them — that  would  imply 
my  approval." 

Canon  Alington  again  paused. 

"Tell  me,  then,"  he  said  at  length.  "I  take  all 
responsibility." 

Mrs.  Alington  looked  straight  in  front  of  her,  and 
spoke  calmly. 

"The  lately  discovered  letters  of  Lord  Nelson,"  she 
said.  "They  are  addressed  chiefly  to  Lady  Hamilton." 

Though  he  heard  quite  clearly,  Canon  Alington  said 
"What?"  sharply.  It  was  the  incredulousness  of  the 
mind  that  spoke. 

"You  did  right  to  tell  me,"  he  said,  after  a  moment; 
"you  had  to.  Now  what  are  we  to  do?  We  must  be 


226  SHEAVES 

very  careful,  very  tactful,  very  broad-minded,  but  we 
must  be  firm.  Of  course  the  paper  cannot  be  read." 

"Oh,  Laddie;  you  must  manage  it!"  said  Agnes. 
"That  is  just  all  that  you  can  be.  You  are  a  priest 
too — she  will  recognise  your  authority." 

Canon  Alington  leaned  his  head  on  his  hand  think- 
ing heavily.  He  did  not  feel  quite  certain  in  his  own 
mind  that  Edith  would  recognise  his  authority,  but  he 
felt  even  in  the  first  moments  of  thought,  that  there 
would  not  be  any  need  that  she  should.  Agnes  seemed 
to  imagine  that  she  would  insist  on  reading  her  paper 
to  the  horrified  Literific  unless  he  absolutely  forbade  her. 

"There  will  be  no  need  for  that,"  he  said;  "a  little 
tact,  above  all,  perfect  simplicity  and  directness  will, 
I  feel  sure,  be  alt  that  is  needed.  But  I  was  wondering, 
dear,  whether  my  speaking  to  her  direct  would  be  the 
best  plan.  I  can't  tell  you  how  grieved  and  disappointed 
I  am.  I  feel  almost  as  if  my  first  impression  about 
'Gambits,' before  I  had  seen  it  was  right  after  all.  It 
seems  to  be  more  of  a  piece  with  this.  In  Mannington, 
too!  That  this  should  happen  in  Mannington!" 

This  was  a  little  obscure:  it  seemed  to  imply  that  it 
did  not  matter  what  was  read  to  Literifics  in  other  places. 
But  no  such  thought  really  entered  his  head,  nor  did  his 
wife  put  such  an  interpretation  on  it. 

"Or  would  you  speak  to  Hugh  about  it?"  she  asked, 
"or  should  I?  I  think  he  will  see." 

Canon  Alington  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  wish  to  say,  or,  indeed,  to  think,  anything 
unkind  or  hard,"  he  said,  "and  so  neither  in  thought 
nor  word  do  I  go  further  than  confess  that  I  don't  tinder- 
stand  Hugh.  And  I  have,  therefore,  no  confidence  that 
he  will  see  our  point  of  view.  You  remember  Tristan?" 

Mrs.  Alington  sighed:   she  did  remember  Tristan. 


SHEAVES  227 

"I  was  filled  with  forebodings  ever  since  I  read  the 
libretto,"  he  said,  "and  I  did  not  see  how  the  impression 
which  the  opera  itself  would  produce  could  be  other  than 
painful  and  shocking.  Still,  since  my  impression  on 
reading  'Gambits,'  at  least  the  review  of  'Gambits,' 
was  reversed  when  I  saw  it  on  the  stage,  I  felt  bound 
to  see  the  other  also.  We  left  Covent  Garden,  you 
remember,  before  the  end  of  the  second  act,  in  spite  of 
the  inconvenience  of  finding  our  way  out  in  the  dark. 
No,  I  do  not  think  it  certain  that  Hugh  will  take  our 
view.  Still,  one  might  try.  I  think — I  am  not  sure — 
but  I  think  that  Hugh  felt  something  of  what  I  said 
then." 

Canon  Alington  had  sat  down  again  by  his  wife's 
chair,  and  she  took  his  hand. 

"What  do  women  do  who  have  no  Galahad? "  she  said. 
"I  felt  so  puzzled,  so  distressed  about  it  all,  and  you  have 
comforted  me.  You  see  so  clearly,  dear.  But  people 
are  so  strange  and  unexpected.  To  think  that  my 
brother  should  have  acted  Tristan  before  all  London. 
And  to  think  that  Mrs.  Owen,  who  is  so  nice,  and  who 
is  so  musical,  and  has  such  deep  feeling,  should  have 
stopped  to  the  end,  and  said  she  enjoyed  it  so.  Apart 
from  all  else,  there  did  not  seem  to  me  to  be  a  single  tune 
in  the  whole  opera." 

"Ah!  Mrs.  Owen,"  said  Canon  Alington  suddenly. 
"She  lunches  with  us  to-morrow,  does  she  not?" 

"Yes,  dear.     What  then?" 

Canon  Alington  attacked  the  subject  again  with 
renewed  briskness. 

"We  might  do  worse  than  consult  her,"  he  said,  "be- 
fore we  take  any  step  at  all.  We  cannot  expect  that 
everyone  should  take  exactly  the  same  line  as  we  do, 
and  it  is  possible — I  say  it  is  possible — that  she  may 


228  SHEAVES 

think  that  a  certain  historical  interest  that  attaches  to 
operas  like  'Tristan,'  or  even  these  letters  of  Nelson, 
may  over-ride  everything  else.  We  do  not,  of  course, 
agree  with  that  view,  but  if  she  holds  it,  it  will  perhaps 
enable  us  to  understand  that  for  others  it  is  tenable. 
On  the  other  hand,  if  she  agrees  with  us,  that  will  much 
strengthen  our  hands  in  dealing  with  the  situation. 
Edith  can  hardly  fail  to  have  a  great  respect  for  her 
opinion.  And  then  we  might  sound  Hugh  and  if  he 
takes  our  view  also,  I  fancy  we  shall  find  our  way  smooth, 
without  having  seemed  to  apply  any  pressure,  or  having 
aroused  any  sense  of  antagonism." 

They  had  talked  long  over  this  one  subject,  and  what 
with  all  the  leeway  that  had  to  be  made  up  on  other 
topics  owing  to  the  Canon's  absence,  time  went  so  fast 
that  it  seemed  almost  incredible  to  them  both  that  eight 
bells  should  break  in  on  their  talk.  Further  discussion, 
therefore,  on  secular  subjects  was  adjourned,  since  it 
was  the  habit  of  the  house  to  spend  Sunday,  of  which 
the  first  hour  had  just  chimed,  with  the  mind  as  well  as 
the  deeds  dissociated  from  the  affairs  of  the  week.  Mrs. 
Alington,  therefore,  hastily  gathered  up  the  Patience 
cards  which  had  been  set  out  earlier  in  the  evening, 
and  her  husband  knocked  the  remains  of  his  latest  pipe 
of  half-awakened  bird's-eye  into  the  grate.  But  with  his 
scrupulous  sense  of  honesty,  he  had  just  one  more 
question  to  ask. 

"You  think  Edith  understands  about — about  Lord 
Nelson  and  her,"  he  asked. 

Mrs.  Alington  shook  her  head  and  pursed  her  lips. 

"  I  think  we  may  take  it  for  granted,"  she  said. 

Canon  Alington  lit  two  bedroom  candles,  drank  a  glass 
of  water,  and  put  out  the  lamp. 

"Habeo!"  he  said.     "The  Bishop  is  holding  a  confir- 


SHEAVES  229 

mation  to-morrow,  and  I  could  see  him  in  the  afternoon 
if  Mrs.  Owen  disagrees  with  us,  and  refer  the  whole 
matter  to  him." 

But  his  wife,  though  usually  they  were  so  much  of  a 
mind,  did  not  welcome  the  suggestion. 

"  One  does  not  want  to  tell  more  people  about  it  than 
is  absolutely  necessary,"  she  said,  "because  one  of  our 
chief  objects  is  to  let  nobody  know.  Let  us  see,  anyhow, 
what  Mrs.  Owen  thinks  first." 

Mrs.  Owen  accordingly  came  to  lunch  after  service 
next  day,  for  though  Canon  Alington  and  his  wife  made 
it  a  rule  not  to  go  out  to  any  meal  on  Sunday,  it  did  not 
cause  a  breach  of  Sunday  observance  that  other  people 
should  take  a  meal  with  them.  For  this  entailed  no 
extra  work  for  the  household,  since  on  Sunday  Ambrose 
and  Perpetua  did  the  work  of  the  parlour-maid  at  table, 
and  handed  everybody  their  rations  and  took  away 
their  plates  when  they  had  consumed  them.  The 
possible  view,  too,  that  this  was  only  a  shifting  of  extra 
work  on  to  the  shoulders  of  the  children  had  no  more 
than  a  superficial  semblance  of  truth  about  it,  with  no 
foundation  in  real  fact,  since  to  perform  those  little 
services  for  their  parents  and  Mrs.  Owen  was  not  love's 
labour  lost,  but  love's  pleasure  found. 

It  was  the  custom  for  Ambrose  and  Perpetua  to  sing 
hymns  after  lunch  on  Sunday,  each  choosing  one  in  turn, 
to  their  mother's  accompaniment,  until  they  were  so 
hoarse  that  they  could  sing  no  more  or  it  was  tea-time. 
But  to-day  they  had  been  privately  instructed  that  they  ask 
Mrs.  Owen  to  sing  once  to  them,  and  that  they  must 
then  take  themselves  off  to  sing  in  the  nursery  if  they 
chose  or  to  go  for  a  walk,  since  their  parents  desired 
some  private  talk  with  her.  She,  no  more  than  anybody 


230  SHEAVES 

else  in  busy  Mannington,  had  not  been  idle  this  last  year, 
and  in  addition  to  nearly  six  weeks  spent  in  town  since 
Easter,  as  well  as  a  memorable  visit  to  Venice  in  April 
had  written  two  more  Galahad  songs,  and  contemplated 
a  whole  Galahad  cycle.  Indeed  it  was  "Galahad's 
Good-morning"  that  she  sang  this  afternoon,  which  was 
to  be  the  first  of  the  Galahad  cycle,  which  would  when 
finished  be  a  whole  day  in  Galahad's  life,  from  the  time 
he  said  good-morning  to  the  time  he  said  good-night. 
In  these  Galahad  songs  there  was,  of  course,  no  meeting 
in  orchards,  although  the  middle  verse  was  full  of  temp- 
tation and  foes,  which  he  routed  without  the  slightest 
difficulty,  and  instantly  returned  to  the  three-two  as 
good  as  new.  And  to-day  as  Mrs.  Owen  sang  Agnes 
could  not  help  her  eyes  growing  a  little  moist  as  she 
looked  across  to  her  Galahad  who  was  gently  beating  time 
(while  Ambrose  and  Perpetua  vied  with  each  other  in 
turning  over),  and  thought  how  pleasant  a  little  coinci- 
dence it  was  that  on  the  very  day  when  he  had  to  charge 
and  rout  the  fell  Lady  Hamilton,  Mrs.  Owen,  with  her 
sweet  face  and  voice  so  full  of  expression,  should  be 
singing  "Galahad's  Good-morning"  to  them.  Once  her 
eyes  met  those  of  her  husband,  and  she  felt  sure  he 
understood  what  was  in  her  mind.  She  was  quite  right; 
he  did.  At  the  end  Ambrose  and  Perpetua  both  gave 
a  great  gasp. 

"I  think  it's  the  loveliest  song  I  ever  heard,"  said 
Perpetua.  "Do  you  know,  Mrs.  Owen,  mamma  calls 
papa  Galahad?  I  can  see  why  now." 

Perpetua  was  a  great  happiness  to  both  her  par- 
ents, but  at  moments  the  happiness  was  almost 
embarrassing. 

"Now,  children,"  said  her  father.  "Ordered  aloft, 
weren't  you?" 


SHEAVES  231 

They  kissed  Mrs.  Owen  loudly  and  went  out  hand- 
in-hand. 

Mrs.  Owen,  it  was  universally  agreed,  had  great  tact 
and  perception.  She  closed  the  piano  and  left  the 
music-stool. 

"Dear  Agnes,"  she  said,  "and  dear  Canon,  I  see  you 
have  got  something  to  say  to  me.  Oh,  those  darling 
children!" 

But  their  parents'  tribute  had  to  be  added  to  hers. 

"That  is  a  sweet  song,"  said  Agnes.  "  So  full  of  morn- 
ing, is  it  not,  and  of  feeling?  I  thought  the  place  where 
the  church-bells  came  in  was  quite,  quite  perfect.  An 
early  service,  I  suppose." 

Mrs.  Owen  looked  rather  timid  for  a  moment,  but  was 
brave  again. 

"Yes,  that  is  the  motif  for  the  next  song,"  she  said. 
"I  am  planning  (is  it  not  audacious?)  a  whole  cycle. 
The  next  will  be  '  Galahad's  Mass.'  Oh,  Canon  Alington, 
that  is  not  Romish  of  me,  is  it?  They  were  called  masses 
in  England,  were  they  not,  until  the  Reformation?" 

"Undoubtedly,"  said  Canon  Alington.  "You  can 
give  no  offence  except  to  the  narrow-minded  by  using 
the  word.  And  then?" 

Mrs.  Owen  gave  a  long-gasping  sigh. 

"Ah!  what  a  relief,"  she  said.  "I  felt  bound  to  con- 
sult you,  and  I  was  afraid  you  might  think  it  rather  risky 
to  call  it  by  that  name.  Well,  after  that,  there  is  going 
to  be  'Galahad's  Adventure,'  which  was  foreshadowed 
in  the  second  verse  of  the  '  Good-morning ' !  Then  there 
will  be  'Galahad's  Matins,'  and  another  adventure,  and 
then  his  dreams.  I  thought,"  and  the  composer  (words 
and  music)  laughed  gently,  "I  thought  after  two  adven- 
tures he  might  sleep  a  little  in  the  afternoon." 

"Very  beautiful,  very  poetical!  "  said  Canon  Alington. 


232  SHEAVES 

"  And  then — oh,  I  wonder  if  you  will  say  it  is  borrowed 
from  'Siegfried?' — there  will  be  a  little  intermezzo  for 
the  piano  and  perhaps  a  violin,  describing  his  thoughts 
When  he  wakes  and  muses  all  by  himself  in  the  forest. 
Really,  really  it  is  quite  different  from  the  '  Waldweben.' 
And  then  comes  his  even-song,  which  is  just  a  little 
hymn  I  composed,  and  then  at  the  end  'Galahad's 
Good-night,'  which  I  think  I  sang  to  you  a  year  ago. 
And — oh,  Agnes  and  Canon  Alington,  I  have  a  bone  to 
pick  with  you ;  Mr.  Hugh  was  there  that  night,  and  you — 
yes,  you  did — you  encouraged  me  to  sing  before  him. 
How  could  you?  How  cruel!  I  never  knew  that  he 
sang  at  all  then.  I  should  never  have  dared." 

"Agnes  and  I  do  not  think  you  need  fear  his  rivalry," 
said  Canon  Alington. 

This  was  quite  completely  true.  Hugh  had  not  the 
faintest  idea  of  rivalling  her. 

"Ah,  but  what  an  artist!  "  she  said.  "Yes,  I  remem- 
ber about  Tristan ;  but  then  let  us  agree  to  differ.  Wag- 
ner, after  all,  you  know!  One  has  to  make  allowances 
for  a  great  man.  Think  of  Napoleon,  of  Nelson." 

There  could  not  have  been  anything  more  apt.  It 
seemed  almost  like  an  omen.  Yet  the  idea  of  making 
allowances  for  great  men  was  not  promising.  But  as 
the  plunge  had  to  be  made,  Canon  Alington  felt  that 
from  here  the  header-board,  so  to  speak,  was  not  very 
high.  He  could  slide,  with  tact,  into  the  subject,  with- 
out danger  from  abrupt  transition. 

"We  have  been  thinking,  both  Agnes  and  I,  a  good 
deal  about  Nelson,"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Owen  sank  down  with  an  air  of  indescribable 
interest,  into  the  chair  next  him,  touching  her  lower 
lip  with  the  little  finger  of  her  left  hand. 

"Yes?"  she  said. 


SHEAVES  233 

"It  is  best  told  in  fewest  Words,"  he  said.  "Mrs. 
Grainger,  you  may  know,  has  promised — very  kindly — 
to  read  us  a  paper  at  the  June  meeting  of  our  Literific 
at  the  end  of  this  week." 

Mrs.  Owen  took  her  little  finger  away  from  her  mouth, 
and  clasped  with  it  the  other  fingers  in  her  right  hand. 
She  put  them  all  between  her  knees. 

"And  I  am  so  looking  forward  to  it,"  she  said. 

Canon  Alington's  face  Was  adamant. 

"So  were  we  all,"  he  said.  "But  she  told  Agnes  the 
subject  she  proposed  to  read  us,  and  Agnes,  of  course, 
felt  it  her  duty  to  tell  me.  The  subject  is  the  lately- 
discovered  letters  of  Lord  Nelson.  They  are  written — I 
needn't  say  to  whom  they  are  Written." 

There  Was  a  dead  silence  while  the  portentous  news 
soaked  into  Mrs.  Owen's  mind.  She  absorbed  it;  she 
survived  it.  Then  she  sat  upright  in  her  chair  again — 
she  had  sunk  down  in  it  before — and  spoke. 

"  Dear  Canon  Alington  and  Agnes,"  she  said,  "perhaps 
I  am  going  to  shock  you  very  much.  But  if  this  paper 
is  read 

"It  shall  not  be  read  while  I  am  secretary,"  said 
Agnes . 

"No,  I  understand  that.  But  if  it  is  read,  I  shall  go 
to  hear  it.  There!  I  have  said  it." 

Like  Galahad,  Canon  Alington  heard  the  sound  of 
hymns  from  the  nursery. 

"I  do  not  follow  you,"  he  said,  feeling  that  he  Would 
have  to  go  to  the  Bishop. 

"Ah,  please  be  patient  with  me!"  said  Mrs.  Owen. 
"As  I  said,  I  should  go  to  hear  it;  but  I  know  the  lecture 
will  never  be  heard.  Nor  should  it.  But — Well,  I  think 
that  one  cannot  expect  that  everybody  should  agree 
with  everybody  else.  I  feel  sure  that  dear  Mrs.  Grainger 


234  SHEAVES 

sees  no  impropriety  in  her  subject.  She,  no  doubt, 
thinks  of — of  these  dreadful  letters — I  make  no  doubt 
they  are  dreadful — as  being  only  of  historical  interest. 
And  one  must  judge  of  people's  actions  by  their  motives." 

She  paused,  and  put  her  hands  up  toward  Canon 
Alington  as  if  she  was  praying. 

"And  in  the  first  lessons  in  church  do  we  not  read  and 
hear  of  things  which  we  should  not  allude  to  in  private 
life?"  she  asked. 

The  formidable  upper  lip  grew  immense. 

"That  is  sacred  history,"  he  said.  "Also  we  do  not 
discuss  them.  One  of  the  great  objects  of  the  Literific 
is  discussion." 

Mrs.  Owen  sank  back  again  in  her  chair. 

"Discussion?"  she  said.  "I  never  thought  of  that. 
Oh,  impossible!" 

The  thought  of  the  Bishop  retreated  toward  the 
horizon  again. 

"Then  you  agree  with  us?"  said  Agnes. 

"On  the  question  of  the  expediency  of  having  the 
paper  read  and  discussed  here  in  Mannington,"  she  said, 
"I  do  agree.  I  should  not  know  which  way  to  look, 
far  less  what  to  say." 

"A  discussion  without  Mrs.  Owen!"  said  Canon 
Alington,  as  if  flinging  a  challenge  to  the  universe  to 
imagine  such  a  thing  possible.  "  'Hamlet'  without 
the  Prince  of  Denmark?" 

Mrs.  Owen  cast  her  eyes  down  at  this  very  handsome 
estimate  of  her  value  as  a  debater,  as  she  did  when  the 
chorus  of  thanks  rose  at  the  end  of  one  of  her  songs. 

"I  gather  then — am  I  wrong? — that  you  are  trying 
to  think  of  the  best  way  out  of  the  difficulty.  Of  course, 
if  I — poor  little  me — could  be  of  any  assistance,  however 
slight,  I  need  hardly  say " 


SHEAVES  235 

This  was  exactly  what  Canon  Alington  wanted.  For 
in  spite  of  the  immense  tact  that  Agnes  often  assured 
him  that  he  possessed,  he  felt  that  Mrs.  Owen  had  more. 
Besides,  she  saw  and  felt  Mrs.  Grainger's  point  of  view, 
which  he  did  not.  Indeed,  he  was  rather  afraid  that  if 
he  conducted  the  interview  there  might  be  considerable 
danger  of  his  moral  indignation  "carrying  him  away." 

"You  can  do  everything,  my  dear  lady,"  he  said. 
"  You  are  the  very  person  to  talk  to  Mrs.  Grainger  about 
it,  if  you  will  be  so  kind,  and  tell  her  what  you  feel  about 
it,  what  we  all  feel  about  it.  You  have  tact;  you  are 
a  woman  of  the  world,  broadminded,  cosmopolitan " 

Mrs.  Owen  laughingly  stopped  her  ears  with  her 
tapering  finger-tips  and  gave  a  little  melodious  laugh. 
Her  laugh  was  supposed  to  be  like  a  peal  of  bells — fairy- 
bells,  some  said. 

"Please,  please!"  she  cried.  "I  am  ready  to  sink 
into  the  earth!" 

"And  tell  her,  too,"  continued  Canon  Alington, 
unable,  now  that  the  burden  of  diplomacy  had  been 
removed  from  him,  to  refrain  from  dictating  the  diplo- 
macy of  others,  "tell  her  that  you  would  eagerly  go 
to  hear  the  paper  read,  that  you  would  be  historically 
interested  in  it.  How  true!  I  myself  am  historically 
interested  in  it;  so  is  Agnes,  I  am  sure.  Perhaps,  how- 
ever, you  need  not  dwell  on  that.  But  to  discuss  it — 
poor  Nelson!"  he  added,  in  a  sudden  flood  of  broad- 
mindedness. 

After  this  the  mere  adjustment  of  the  movements  of 
what  Canon  Alington  called  "our  squadron"  was  easy, 
and  it  Was  soon  settled  that  he  and  Mrs.  Owen  should 
call  at  Chalkpits  this  very  afternoon,  and  that  while 
Mrs.  Owen  was  tactful  to  Edith,  Canon  Alington  should 
put  his  view  of  the  matter  rather  more  forcibly  before 


236  SHEAVES 

Hugh,  in  order  to  range  him  also  on  the  side  of  the 
squadron.  And  though  he  was  almost  passionately 
fond  of  directing  the  affairs  of  others,  it  is  but  just  to 
him  to  say  that  he  had  no  great  relish  for  this  mission. 
However,  as  both  the  ladies  agreed  that  he  was  clearly 
ths  right  person  to  do  it,  he  could  not  refuse;  but  he 
felt  a  little  doubtful  to  what  extent  Hugh  would 
recognise  his  authority. 

Mrs.  Owen,  on  the  other  hand,  was  thoroughly  pleased 
with  the  task  she  had  so  readily  undertaken,  for  though 
Edith's  relations  with  her  had  always  been  quite  cordial, 
they  had  also  been  quite  slight,  and  she  felt  that  she  had 
not  made  at  Chalkpits  the  impression  that  she  was 
accustomed  to  make  in  Mannington.  Two  women  of 
the  world — these  were  her  most  secret  thoughts,  and 
she  hardly  admitted  them  to  herself,  even  when  she  was 
alone — ought  to  gravitate  to  each  other  in  Mannington, 
where  everybody  almost  was  so  very  provincial.  Even 
the  dear  Alingtons,  though  they  appreciated  her  songs 
so  much,  she  felt,  especially  when  she  had  just  returned 
from  her  month  in  London,  were  not  quite  of  the  calibre 
that  was  on  an  equality  with  the  "set"  she  had  lately 
been  with — among  whom  was  a  viscount.  She  could 
not  help  feeling  when  she  came  back  to  Mannington 
that  she  was  being  a  little  thrown  away  here.  But  now 
a  fresh  prospect  opened;  this  delicate  mission,  which 
she  was  confident  she  could  manage  tactfully  and  suc- 
cessfully, could  hardly  fail  to  bring  her  at  once  into 
closer  relations  with  Edith  and  her  husband,  and  it 
should  indeed  not  be  her  fault  (from  omission  or  remiss- 
ness,  that  is  to  say)  if  it  did  not  ripen  into  intimacy. 
Then,  indeed,  life  at  Mannington  would  be  a  thing  that 
even  the  "set"  might  envy;  for  none  could  be  blind  to 
the  advantages  of  being  hand-and-glove  with  the  author 


SHEAVES  237 

of  "Gambits"  or  of  the  dropping  in  to  hear  Hugh 
Grainger,  who  was  already  on  the  gramophone,  sing 
some  scene  out  of  "Tristan"  or  "Lohengrin."  The 
wonderful  Lady  Rye,  too,  who  swam  in  a  firmament 
high  above  even  the  set,  and  was  known  to  them  only 
through  fashionable  intelligence  in  the  daily  papers  or 
charity  bazaars,  Was  Edith's  sister.  It  Was  only  natural 
that  a  further  friendship  Would  follow. 

Both  the  Canon  and  she  were  somewhat  occupied  in 
their  own  thoughts  as  they  walked  across  the  meadows 
from  St.  Olaf  to  the  Chalkpits,  and  Mrs.  Owen's  day- 
dreams grew  brighter  and  more  lifelike  every  moment. 
The  most  extreme  possibilities  rapidly  assumed  the  guise 
of  the  probable.  What  if  the  Morning  Post  announced 
before  long  that  Lady  Rye  was  spending  the  Saturday 
till  Monday  with  Mrs.  Owen  at  Mannington!  Things 
more  unlikely  had  occurred.  Or  if  Mrs.  Owen  Was  seen 
(looking  charming)  at  the  opera  in  Lady  Rye's  box, 
When  her  brother-in-law  sang  Siegfried  vvith  such  huge 
success !  Or  what  if  Mr.  Hugh  Grainger  at  some  autumn 
concert  sang  the  Galahad  cycle  (words  and  music  by 
Gladys  Owen)  to  an  enraptured  Queen's  Hall?  But 
she  Would  never,  she  was  determined,  however  high 
was  the  ladder  she  might  soon  be  climbing,  drop  the  dear 
kind  Alingtons.  Indeed  it  would  be  through  them 
really  that  she  was  brought  into  this  prospective  intimacy 
with  the  Graingers.  She  would  always  remember  that, 
and  continue  singing  Galahad  to  them  just  as  before. 

The  "squadron"  started  the  campaign  itself  at  a 
slight  disadvantage,  for  the  day  was  very  hot,  and  the 
walk  up  to  Chalkpits  had  been  hot  also.  And  though 
high  moral  purpose  was  their  motive  power  and  should 
have  put  them  at  once  in  an  unassailable  position,  it  is 


238  SHEAVES 

a  fact  that  people  who  are  obviously  hot  are  at  a  dis- 
advantage in  dealing  with  those  who  sit  under  trees  or 
lie  in  hammocks  and  are  cool.  No  amount  of  moral 
purpose  alone  will  cancel  the  handicap  of  a  perspiring 
forehead. 

Tea  was  just  going  out  to  the  lawn  when  they  arrived, 
and  the  butler  saying  that  Mrs.  Grainger  was  out  there 
led  them  through  the  house  and  across  the  lawn.  Edith 
was  sitting  with  her  back  to  them  in  a  large  basket  chair, 
and  did  not  hear  them  approach,  while  by  her  lay  Hugh 
in  a  hammock  reading  aloud  the  mad  tea  party  from 
"Alice  in  Wonderland."  Edith  heard  them  first  and 
got  up;  Hugh's  voice  still  went  on: 

"  'But  they  were  in  the  well,'  said  Alice." 

"  'Of  course  they  were,'  said  the  Dormouse,  'Well 
in."' 

Hugh  gave  a  great  crack  of  laughter. 

"Oh,  dear,  how  nice!  It  doesn't  mean  anything  at 
all.  No  idea  of  any  kind  creeps  in.  Oh!  Hullo,  Dick! 
How  are  you,  Mrs.  Owen?" 

Edith  was,  as  always,  perfectly  natural  and  cordial, 
and  delighted  to  see  them,  but  Mrs.  Owen  felt  that  her 
entry,  which  was  to  have  been  so  winning,  was  a  little 
spoiled  by  the  heat.  Five  minutes,  however,  were 
sufficient  to  restore  her,  and  she  set  to  work  then  without 
delay  to  make  the  impression  she  should  have  made 
on  arrival. 

"Yes,  I  always  tell  everybody  that  you  have  a  perfect 
house,  and  a  perfect  garden,  Mrs.  Grainger,"  she  said. 
"I  am  afraid  I  always  break  the  Tenth  Commandment 
whenever  I  come  here  " 

It  was  some  consolation  to  Edith,  since  she  must  be 
held  partly  responsible  for  her  house  and  garden,  that 
Mrs  Owen  had  only  broken  the  Tenth  Commandment 


SHEAVES  239 

once  before,  and  then  only  with  regard  to  an  imperfect 
view  of  the  front  hall,  for  she  had  been  out  when  Mrs. 
Owen  called,  and  her  visitor  had  only  left  cards.  But 
she  replied  that  she  did  think  it  was  a  pleasant  situation, 
and  Mrs.  Owen  continued. 

"Yes,  I  tell  all  my  set  so,"  she  said.  "Like  you,  I 
am  just  back  from  town,  and  how  delicious  the  country 
is,  is  it  not,  after  the  whirl  and  rush  of  London.  Some- 
times I  wonder  why  I  ever  go  to  town  at  all,  and  yet  I 
suppose  one  would  get  a  little  rusty  and  old-fashioned 
if  one  didn't  bring  oneself  up  to  date  occasionally. 
Perhaps  it  is  even  a  duty.  They  always  tell  me  I  bury 
myself  too  much  in  the  country,  as  it  is,  and  scold  me 
dreadfully  about  it." 

Edith  looked  at  her  with  her  pleasant  direct  gaze. 

"I  wonder  if  environment  has  much  to  do  with  one's 
getting  rusty  or  old-fashioned?"  she  said.  "I  really 
think  the  rust  and  the  old-fashionedness  begin  from 
within." 

Mrs.  Owen  clasped  her  hands  together. 

"Oh,  but  how  responsible  you  make  me  feel,"  she 
said.  "I  know  how  rusty  and  old-fashioned  I  often 
get,  and  you  think  it  is  my  fault." 

Canon  Alington  rose  at  this  with  a  sort  of  clerical 
gallantry. 

"Well,  well,  we  learn  something  new  every  day!"  he 
ejaculated.  "I  have  learned,  from  her  own  lips,  too, 
that  Mrs.  Owen  is  rusty!  " 

Mrs.  Owen  nearly  said  "Naughty  man!"  but  rejected 
this  natural  impulse,  as  not  being  quite  in  tune  with  the 
impression  she  wished  to  make. 

"Ah,  but  it  is  true!  "  she  said.  "  One's  own  conscious- 
ness is  the  only  judge  in  these  matters.  If  I  accuse 
myself  of  being  rusty  I  am  rusty.  The  intellect  is  its 


240  SHEAVES 

own  tribunal.  I  forget  who  said  that,  but  you  know, 
I  am  sure,  Mrs.  Grainger." 

Mrs.  Grainger  had  not  the  slightest  idea;  she  felt, 
too,  that  she  had  very  little  notion  what  Mrs.  Owen 
was  talking  about.  It  was  as  if  she  desired  to  shine, 
but  -could  not  quite  manage  to  light  a  match.  She 
struck,  and  rubbed,  and  struck,  but  it  did  not  flame. 
The  other  part  of  the  squadron,  however,  tea  being  over, 
began  manoeuvring,  and  Canon  Alington,  with  a  horrified 
glance  at  his  watch,  saw  he  must  be  getting  back  for 
evening  service.  He  was,  with  a  view  to  manoeuvre, 
going  to  suggest  to  Hugh,  that  he  should  accompany 
him,  when  Hugh  made  the  suggestion  himself,  saying 
he  wanted  a  walk.  Then,  of  course,  it  remained  for 
Mrs.  Owen  to  be  unable  to  tear  herself  away  just  yet, 
and,  behold,  they  were  in  fighting  line. 

Canon  Alington  and  Hugh  set  off  briskly,  and  the 
former  opened  fire  at  once. 

"  I  am  glad  to  have  this  opportunity  of  talking  to  you, 
Hugh,"  he  said,  "because  I  have  something  to  say  to 
you.  I  want — Agnes  and  I  both  want,  and  indeed  Mrs. 
Owen  also  wants — your  cooperation  and  help." 

Insensibly  the  upper  lip  lengthened  itself  a  little,  and 
Hugh  vaguely  wondered  if  it  was  going  to  be  suggested 
that  he  should  beg  the  Opera  Syndicate  not  to  present 
"Tristan"  again,  or  any  little  trifle  of  that  sort. 

"The  key  of  the  situation,  a  painful  one,  is  in  your 
hands,"  continued  Dick.  "At  least,  in  your  capacity 
as  Edith's  husband,  it  should  be." 

Clearly  it  was  not  "Tristan." 

"Pray  go  on,"  said  Hugh. 

"You  perhaps  guess?"  asked  Dick. 

"I  haven't  the  vaguest  notion." 

"Ah,  perhaps  you  have  not  been  told!     Very  proper, 


SHEAVES  241 

quite  in  accordance  with  the  rules  of  the  Literific,  though 
perhaps  the  spirit  of  that  rule  did  not  seek  to  ordain 
that  a  member  should  not  tell  even  his  wife  or  husband — 
or  rather  she  her  husband — the  subject  of  a  forthcoming 
paper." 

"  Oh,  Edith's  paper  about  the  Lady  Hamilton  letters? " 
said  Hugh  guilelessly.  "I  did  know  that.  In  fact, 
she  has  read  me  her  paper.  Bat  it  didn't  occur  to  me 
in  connection  with  any  possible  painful  situation.  She 
was  rather  behindhand  with  it,  but  it  is  quite  finished 
now,  if  you  mean  that." 

Even  Canon  Alington  found  a  momentary  difficulty 
in  getting  on,  for  he  did  not  mean  that.  He  quite  wished 
that  Mrs.  Owen  had  been  left  to  manage  the  business 
alone.  But  there  was  still  a  charitable  solution  possible. 

"Ah,  then,  I  am  sure  it  is  as  I  thought!"  he  said. 
"Neither  Edith  nor  you  can  know  the  stories  that  are 
current,  which  there  is  unhappily  only  too  much  reason 
to  suppose  are  true,  about  poor  Nelson  and  that  lady." 

Hugh  had  a  momentary  impulse  to  shout  r/ith  laugh- 
ter, but  checked  it  for  subtle  methods.  In  spite  of  the 
desire  to  laugh,  too,  he  was  beginning  to  feel,  under- 
standing as  he  now  did,  the  probable  though  scarcely 
credible  purpose  of  this  conversation,  rather  angry. 

"  Dick,  I  don't  think  it  is  right,  especially  for  a  person 
in  your  position,  to  rake  up  old  scandals,"  he  said 
gravely. 

"Then  you  do  know  Edith  knows?"  asked  Dick. 

"It  is  taught  in  the  elementary  schools,"  said  Hugh. 

The  upper  lip  lengthened  further. 

"Then  to  come  to  the  point.  Do  you  think  it  is  right 
to  read,  here  in  Mannington,  a  paper  dealing  with  that 
situation,  and  to  discuss  it — discuss  it  afterward?" 

They  had  come  to  the  stile  leading  into  the  field  by 


242  SHEAVES 

the   Rectory,  and  Hugh  sat  down  on  it.     His  amuse- 
ment had  died  away. 

"Go  on,"  he  said  quietly. 

"I  have  no  desire  to  preach  to  you,"  said  Dick, 
instantly  beginning  to  do  so,  "and  my  last  question 
was  one  that  one  scarcely  wants  answered,  because  the 
answer  is  foregone.  I  am  willing  to  believe  that  both 
you  and  Edith  overlooked  the  real,  the  moral  facts  of 
the  case,  in  your  attention  to  a  certain  historical  interest 
which  must  always  attach  to  the  lives  of  great  men,  for, 
of  course,  Nelson,  considered  as  a  sailor,  and  indeed  as 
one  of  the  makers  of  England,  was  a  great  man.  But, 
my  dear  fellow,  that  does  not  excuse  our  dwelling,  as  in 
these  private  letters  we  must  dwell,  on  the  darker  side 
of  his  character.  And  now  for  a  practical  suggestion: 
couldn't  she,  without  much  trouble,  extract  from  her 
paper  some  little  essay  about  Trafalgar,  and  the  disposal 
of  the  fleet,  instead  of  these  letters,  which,  I  believe,  deal 
with  other  things?  We  may  think  with  pride  of  Tra- 
falgar, but  for  the  rest?  It  is  the  rest  of  which  these 
private  letters,  I  make  no  doubt,  deal." 

'Oh,  you  haven't  read  them  then?"  asked  Hugh. 
"  It's  'Gambits'  over  again,  is  it?  You  know  the  subject 
from  some  review  and  can  pronounce  on  it  all  right?" 

"Ah,  it  is  not  my  unsupported  judgment  this  time!" 
said  Dick,  sublimely  ignoring  the  point  of  Hugh's  ques- 
tion. "Agnes  agrees  with  me;  Mrs.  Owen  agrees  with 
me." 

"Stop  a  moment,"  said  Hugh.  "I  thought  the  rules 
of  the  Literific  sought  to  ordain,  wasn't  it,  that  the  sub- 
ject of  the  paper  should  be  secret  till  the  notices  were 
sent  out.  How  did  you  and  Mrs.  Owen  know?  Did 
Agnes  tell  you,  and  you  tell  Mrs.  Owen?" 

"Agnes  felt  it  her  duty  to  tell  me,"  said  Dick,  looking 


SHEAVES  243 

rather  white  and  stern.  "I  agreed  with  her  when  she 
told  me.  I  take  all  responsibility." 

"That's  all  right  then,"  said  Hugh.  "I  can  have 
it  out  with  you,  as  you  are  responsible.  And  I  suppose 
you  felt  it  your  duty  to  tell  Mrs.  Owen,  and  Tom  and 
Harry,  and  the  butcher  and  baker.  And  am  I  to  under- 
stand that  you  and  Agnes  and  that  woman  have  been 
talking  over  the  propriety  of  my  wife's  writing  this 
paper  for  your  tin-pot  Literific,  and  the  impossibility 
of  having  it  read,  because  of  its  dreadful,  improper  and 
disgusting  subject?  Have  you?" 

"We  have  discussed  the  matter.  We  had  to.  Please 
let  me  pass,  Hugh,  I  see  it  is  no  use  talking  it  over,  as  I 
hoped  I  could,  quietly  and  in  a  friendly  manner  with 
you." 

Hugh  did  not  move. 

"I'm  blessed  if  I  let  you  pass,"  he  said.  "You've 
been  spending  your  happy,  holy  Sunday  afternoon — oh, 
I  can  imagine  the  tone  so  well — about  her,  and  you  have 
chosen  to  speak  of  the  subject  to  me,  and  so  I'm  going 
to  answer  you." 

"There  is  no  need.  I  see  I  made  a  mistake  in  speaking 
to  you  at  all,"  said  Dick. 

Hugh  had  completely  lost  his  usually  imperturbable 
temper,  and  lost  it  in  the  violent,  blazing  manner  with 
which  good-tempered  people  do  on  the  rare  occasions 
when  they  lose  it  at  all.  As  if  Edith  could  write,  or  wish 
to  write,  anything  that  might  not  be  read  or  discussed 
in  the  Courts  of  Heaven!  And  that  his  sister  and  this 
prig,  and  that  woman  should  have  talked  over  the 
question  together!  He  easily  imagined,  too,  their 
mental  attitude  toward  her,  the  thoughts  that  prompted 
and  were  prompted  by  what  they  said.  The  thought 
of  it  all  was  perfectly  intolerable. 


244  SHEAVES 

"Yes,  you  made  a  mistake,"  he  said,  "and  you  make 
another  in  thinking  I  am  not  going  to  answer  you. 
Because  I  am.  You're  too  much  accustomed  to  go 
jawing  away  in  your  pulpit  to  people  who  can't  answer 
you.  And  from  not  being  answered  you  get  to  think 
that  you  are  always  quite  right.  You  aren't,  and  I'm 
telling  you  so.  What  the  deuce  do  you  mean  by  sup- 
posing that  my  wife  could  write,  if  she  tried,  anything 
that  wasn't  fit  to  be  read  and  discussed?  Why,  it's  you 
who  aren't  fit  to  read  and  discuss  it,  any  more  than  you 
are  fit  to  go  and  see  'Tristan.'  That's  by  the  way;  I 
don't  care  what  you  think  or  say  about  me  for  singing 
in  it,  or  what  you  say  about  the  opera.  I  just  laugh. 
But  it's  a  different  matter  when  you  come  to  think 
and  say  things  about  Edith.  I  don't  laugh  then — 
I'm  not  laughing  now.  How  dare  you  do  it?" 

Canon  Alington  had  never,  in  all  the  course  of  his 
useful  life,  been  spoken  to  like  this,  and  he  was  aston- 
ished into  silence.  It  seemed  incredible  that  this  could 
happen,  and  yet  it  was  happening.  And  Hugh  had  not 
finished  yet. 

"You  asked  me  just  now,"  he  went  on,  "whether  I 
thought  it  right  for  my  wife  to  read  this  paper  of  hers 
in  Mannington,  and  you  may  be  surprised  to  hear  that 
I  agree  with  you ;  I  think  it  most  undesirable  that  she 
should.  But  my  reason  will  probably  surprise  you  just 
as  much,  and  it's  because  if  we  are  to  judge  of  Manning- 
ton  or  the  members  of  the  Literific  by  you,  the  people 
here  must  have  the  most  disgusting  minds.  I  never 
heard  of  anything  so  narrow  and  Puritanical  and — and 
prurient.  You  were  just  the  same  about  'Tristan  ';  you 
couldn't  see  the  beauty  of  it  because  you  couldn't  keep 
your  mind  off  the  moral  question.  I  tell  you  that  Edith 
and  I  haven't  horrid  minds  like  that;  we  don't  even  need 


SHEAVES  245 

to  make  an  effort  not  to  think  about  that.  We  don't 
Want  to;  it  doesn't  occur  to  us.  Another  thing,  too — I 
bet  you  that  you  and  that  "woman  came  to  call  this  after- 
noon in  order  that  you  should  talk  to  me  about  it,  and 
she  should  talk  to  Edith.  That's  not  a  very  nice  thing 
to  do.  You  should  have  told  me  to  have  told  Edith. 
Instead,  you  trapped  me  into  Walking  with  you,  in  order 
that  that  Woman  should  talk  to  my  wife.  Besides,  I 
thought  you  didn't  approve  of  going  out  on  Sundays?" 

Hugh  paused  a  moment. 

"So  don't  be  under  any  misapprehension,"  he  said. 
"I  am  entirely  on  your  side,  you  see,  about  the  reading 
of  this  paper,  though  for  rather  different  reasons,  and 
I  shall  do  my  best  to  induce  Edith  not  to  read  it  or  any 
other  ever.  I  don't  know  if  I  shall  succeed,  because  she 
has  got  the  soul  and  mind  of  an  angel,  and  is  perfectly 
incapable,  I  honestly  believe,  of  doing  anything  that 
would  be  unpleasant  for  anybody.  Good  Lord!  how 
I  shall  enjoy  telling  Peggy  about  it.  She  will  roar,  if 
I  can  make  her  believe  it's  true.  By-the-way,  also,  you 
said  up  at  the  house  that  you  must  go  because  it  was 
church  time.  You  looked  at  your  watch,  too,  and  must 
have  known  it  wasn't,  because  there  are  the  bells  just 
beginning.  That's  all  I've  got  to  say,  I  think." 

Hugh  stepped  down  from  the  stile  and  held  out  his 
hand. 

"There,"  he  said,  "I'll  apologise  for  anything  I  have 
said  that  isn't  true.  I've  got  more  to  forgive  than  you, 
you  know,  Dick,  because  I've  said  everything  straight 
to  you,  whereas  you  talked  us  over  with  Mrs.  Owen  and 
Agnes,  and  you  attributed  to  Edith  the  nastiness  of 
your  own  mind.  That's  what  it  comes  to.  Now  I 
propose  that  we  'make  up,'  as  boys  say." 

Canon  Alington  looked  at  him  icily. 


246  SHEAVES 

"I  never  bear  malice  against  anyone,"  he  said;  "but 
as  to  'making  up,'  in  the  sense  in  which  I  understand 
the  word,  namely,  to  resume  cordial  relations  with  you, 
I  will  do  so  when  you  express  regret  for  every  word  you 
have  said." 

Hugh  stared  at  him  for  a  moment. 

"  I  will  express  it  when  I  feel  it,"  he  said,  and  walked 
straight  back  toward  Chalkpits. 


CHAPTER   XII 

HUGH'S  hustle  of  indignation  against  his  brother- 
in-law  carried  him  in  one  burst  (like  a  motor-car 
on  its  top-speed)  to  the  level  of  the  hill  where  Chalkpits 
stood,  and  he  rattled  and  hooted  his  Way  into  the  garden. 
There  he  found  Mrs.  Owen  still  talking  to  his  wife,  and 
he  noticed  that  the  subject,  whatever  it  was,  Was  broken 
off  very  short  when  he  appeared  on  the  lawn,  and  Mrs. 
Owen  began  with  an  eager  finger  to  appreciate  the 
beauties  of  the  herbaceous  border. 

"And  those  beautiful  pink  roses  over  there,"  she  said 
— "what  are  they?  I  am  so  short-sighted." 

"They  are  mallows,"  said  Hugh. 

"Yes,  so  they  are.  Don't  you  adore  mallows,  Mr. 
Grainger  ?  And  did  the  dear  Canon  say  anything  which 
showed  that  he  thought  I  ought  to  have  gone  to  evening- 
service  ?  I  am  afraid  I  am  very  naughty  about  evening- 
service.  If  he  preaches,  I  go;  if  he  doesn't,  I  exercise 
free-will,  or  free-won't,  as  he  said." 

"I  thought  he  always  preached,"  said  Hugh,  with 
an  internal  cackle  of  malicious  delight  at  what  he 
implied. 

"Ah,  no!  I  wish  he  did.     Such  Wonderful  eloquence!  " 

"He  was  very  eloquent  on  the  way  down,"  said 
Hugh. 

Edith  was  watching  Hugh's  movements  with  some 
anxiety,  seeing,  as  was  perfectly  clear,  that  he  was  what 
Mrs.  Owen  would  call  "rather  upset,"  and  easily 
conjecturing  the  cause. 

"And  those  brilliant  yellow  flowers,"  continued  Mrs. 

247 


248  SHEAVES 

Owen — "what  are  they?  Like  sunlight  on  the  bed, 
are  they  not?  Surely  they  are  little  sunflowers!" 

"Coreopsis,"  said  Hugh  smartly.   "Cigarette,  Edith?" 

"  Perhaps  Mrs.  Owen  will,"  said  she. 

Mrs.  Owen  looked  round,  as  if  she  was  afraid  that  the 
Literific  were  all  concealed  in  the  trees  and  were  watching 
her.  She  occasionally  smoked  when  she  was  surrounded 
by  "  the  set" — but,  then,  London  was  so  different. 

"Well,  if  you  will  never,  never  tell,"  she  said.  "I 
do  smoke  sometimes,  though  I  can't  feel  sure  that  I 
ought.  I  had  a  cigarette,  I  remember,  after  I  came 
back  from  Tristan — your  Tristan,  Mr.  Grainger.  Oh, 
how  I  enjoyed  it!  and  what  a  wreck  I  was  next  day." 

This  sounded  rather  as  if  the  cigarette  was  the  wrecker, 
but  she  took  one,  blacked  it  all  down  one  side  with  the 
smoke  from  the  match,  and  leant  back  in  her  chair  with 
a  sense  that  she  was  doing  exactly  the  right  thing. 
Edith  took  one  also,  and  here  they  all  were,  as  Mrs. 
Owen  gleefully  thought,  the  author  of  "Gambits,"  the 
new  Tristan,  and  she,  all  smoking  together.  She  felt 
that  intimacy  was,  indeed,  on  the  wing,  and  if  she 
thought  of  the  Alingtons  at  all  she  thought  of  them  as 
the  "poor  Alingtons." 

Then  Edith  turned  to  her  husband. 

"Sit  down,  Hughie,"  she  said.  "With  Mrs.  Owen's 
leave  I  want  to  tell  you  what  we  have  beeen  talking 
about." 

Mrs.  Owen  put  up  deprecating  hands  in  the  attitude 
of  prayer,  palm  to  palm  and  fingers  outstretched. 

"Promise  he  shan't  scold  me!"  she  said. 

This  was  very  winsome  and  called  from  Hugh,  who 
was  sitting  a  little  behind  her,  and  out  of  sight,  a  glare 
of  concentrated  hate.  But  Edith  noticed  neither  the 
hate  nor  the  winsomCness. 


SHEAVES  249 

"Why,  of  course  not!"  she  said.  "I  think  you  did 
a  very  friendly  thing  in  telling  me.  I  am  most  grateful 
to  you.  But  I  think  we  three  had  better  talk  it  over." 

Mrs.  Owen  released  her  hands  from  the  prayerful 
attitude,  and  shook  them  impatiently  in  the  air. 

"Oh!  how  I,  my  Ego,  myself,  disagree  with  what  I 
believe  to  be  the  wisest  course,"  she  said.  "Moral 
geography,  was  it  not  a  delicious  expression  of  your 
wife's,  Mr.  Grainger?  We  must  remember  we  are  in 
Mannington.  How  narrow  and  stupid  it  all  seems  to 
me  now  while  I  sit  quietly  smoking  here  with  you." 

At  this  moment  a  huge  ember  of  burning  matter 
dropped  from  Mrs.  Owen's  cigarette  on  to  her  dress,  and 
the  quiet  smoke  was  interrupted  for  a  moment.  The  con- 
trast between  Edith,  the  woman  of  the  world,  and  all 
her  quiet  simplicity,  with  the  woman  who  only  succeeded 
in  being  worldly,  was  wonderfully  marked.  One  was 
quiet  and  kind,  the  other  was  fussy  and  full  of  monkey- 
plans.  Between  them  sat  Hugh,  angry  and  young. 

"Oh,  I  have  been  having  a  talk  about  the  same  sub- 
ject!" he  said.  "Do  you  think  this  storm  in — in  a 
scullery  is  worth  discussion.  I  have  already  said 
exactly  what  I  thought  about  it." 

Edith  frowned,  then  laughed. 

"Dear  Hugh,"  she  said,  "you  must  remember  that 
we  are  in  the  scullery  ourselves,  and  that  I  am  the 
kitchen-maid  who  has  prepared  a  dish  which  isn't  fit  to 
be  eaten.  I  see  that  now;  I  should  have  seen  it  all  along." 

Again  Mrs.  Owen  waved  her  slim,  long-fingered  hands 
in  protest. 

"Ah,  Mrs.  Grainger,  how  naughty  you  are!"  she 
cried.  "  It  is  not  the  dish  that  is  not  fit,  it  is  the  diners 
who  are  not  fit.  That  is  my  view." 

Again  Edith's  simplicity  shone  out. 


2So  SHEAVES 

"In  plain  words,  Hugh,"  she  said,  "the  paper  of  mine 
about  the  Nelson  letters  clearly  won't  do.  Your  sister 
has  a  feeling  against  it,  so  has  Canon  Alington,  and  Mrs. 
Owen  agrees  as  regards  the  inexpediency  of  reading  it 
to  the  Literific." 

"Under  protest — oh,   such  protest!"  she   cried. 

"Yes.  And  now  that  it  is  so  kindly  pointed  out 
to  us  by  Mrs.  Owen,  we  have  to  consider  what  to  do 
next." 

"Oh,  I  have  pronounced  on  that!"  said  Hugh.  "You 
and  I  are  clearly  not  up  to  the  mark  of  the  Literific,  and 
we  must  retire.  But  we  must  tell  Peggy." 

Mrs.  Owen  clapped  her  hands. 

"How  I  should  love  to  see  Lady  Rye's  face  when  she 
is  told!"  she  said,  in  a  little  ecstatic  aside.  "What  a 
laugh  we  should  all  have!" 

Hugh,  in  the  midst  of  his  irritation,  let  the  eyelid  of 
the  eye  away  from  Mrs.  Owen  just  quiver,  as  if  it  said, 
"No,  you  don't!" 

"Oh,  Hugh,  be  serious!"  said  his  wife.  "As  if  we 
could  do  that,  like  huffy  children.  Now  we  are  keeping 
Mrs.  Owen " 

Mrs.  Owen  made  so  vigorous  a  gesture  of  dissent,  that 
the  flowers  in  her  hat  swayed  as  if  a  squall  had  passed 
over  them.  Hugh  got  up. 

"But  the  matter  is  settled,"  he  said.  "I  have  sent 
in  our  resignation;  at  least,  I've  practically  done  so." 

Mrs.  Owen  was  absorbed.  The  inner  life  of  these 
distinguished  persons  was  being  turned  inside  out 
before  her  eyes.  She  was  as  fascinated  in  it  as  a  child  is 
in  the  internal  mechanism  of  a  watch.  And  though  she 
looked  on,  she,  too,  was  of  it;  she  was  concerned  in  their 
wheels  and  cogs. 

"Yes,  but  we've  got  to  think  of  something  else,"  she 


SHEAVES  251 

said  quietly.  "I  have  promised  to  read  a  paper,  and 
the  one  I  have  written  clearly  won't  do,  so  I  must  do 
my  best  before  Friday  to  write  another." 

Then  she  turned  to  Mrs.  Owen." 

"You  are  so  kind,"  she  said,  "that  I  am  sure  I  may 
ask  you  to  tell  either  Canon  Alington  or  his  wife  that  I 
quite  see  their  point  of  view,  and  I  will  anyhow  read 
them  something.  If  that  is  not  giving  you  too  much 
trouble,  it  would  be  most  good  of  you  to  undertake  it. 
I  don't  want  to  see  him  myself  about  it,  because  it  would 
be  much  better  to  avoid  any  possibility  of  discussion 
between  us,  whereas  he  has  already  consulted  you.  And 
since  my  husband  does  not  entirely  feel  with  me  on  the 
subject,  it  is  best  that  he  should  not  be  the  intermedi- 
ary. And  will  you  say  also  that  by  to-morrow  night 
I  will  send  him  the  subject  of  it,  so  that  the  notices 
can  go  out  early  next  day.  My  sister,  Lady  Rye, 
comes  down  to-morrow,  and  if  we  can't  think  of  anything 
to-night,  I  am  sure  she  will  be  able  to.  And  I  need 
hardly  say  that  I  don't  want  the  whole  thing  to  go  any 
further.  It  would  be  tiresome  to  know  that  Manning- 
ton  was  talking  about  it  all." 

The  words  were  quite  courteous  and  sincere,  but  they 
had  the  note  of  finality  about  them,  as  Edith  had  in- 
tended, and  produced  the  effect  of  making  Mrs.  Owen 
get  up,  for  Edith  did  not  propose,  since  Hugh  was  so 
clearly  "on  edge,"  to  sit  and  discuss  it  any  further. 

"It  will  be  a  pleasure,"  said  Mrs.  Owen  with  perfect 
truth,  "and  I  will  catch  him  after  church.  And  may 
I  take  your  paper  with  me,  as  you  so  kindly  let  me  read 
it?  Is  it  typewritten  or  in  manuscript?  I  hope  manu- 
script— I  am  so  psychical,  and  manuscript  would 
convey  so  much  more  to  me." 

Edith  turned  to  Hugh. 


252  SHEAVES 

"Hugh,  would  you  please  get  it  for  Mrs.  Owen?" 
she  asked.  "  It  is  on  my  table.  I  am  afraid  it  is 
typewritten." 

Hugh  could  not  resist  one  more  shot  at  his  brother-in- 
law. 

"And  you  might  tell  Canon  Alington  that  he  must 
avoid  the  next  number  of  the  Nineteenth  Century  like 
poison,"  he  said,  "because  my  wife's  paper  appears  in 
it.  He  might  give  a  few  words  of  warning  in  church!" 

Mrs.  Owen  wrinkled  up  her  eyes  with  her  bewitching 
smile,  and  clapped  her  hands. 

"Oh,  how  naughty  of  you!"  she  cried.  "But  how 
delicious!" 

Hugh  sped  the  parting  guest  to  the  door  and  came 
back  again,  rather  lingering  on  his  way,  into  the  garden 
because  he  felt  slightly  guilty,  and  slightly  ashamed 
of  himself.  And  though,  when  he  thought  of  Canon 
Alington's  exasperating  upper-lip,  he  steeled  himself 
again  into  anger,  he  felt  sure  that  somehow  or  other 
there  was  a  process  of  climbing  down,  and  perhaps  an 
expression  of  regret  in  front  of  him.  For  there  was 
Edith  again,  as  he  had  said  once  before  shining  above 
him,  and  he  had  to  get  there.  He  would  have  to  give 
up  his  anger  before  he  could  join  her.  And  join  her  he 
must.  Even  in  what  he  had  called  the  storm  in  the 
scullery  they  must  be  together. 

Edith  welcomed  him  back  with  her  serene  and  quiet 
smile. 

"Sit  down,  Hughie,"  she  said,  "because  we  have  got 
to  have  quite  a  talk.  Oh!  but  one  thing,  dear,  before 
I  begin.  Do  you  know,  you  were  rather  rude  to  Mrs. 
Owen,  and  it  is  a  dreadful  pity  to  be  rude  to  people. 
She  was  our  guest,  you  see,  and  though  perhaps  neither 
of  us  like  her  very  much,  you  must  be  polite.  You 


SHEAVES  253 

rather  snapped  at  her.  You  snapped  'hollyhocks' 
when  she  admired  roses,  and  you  snapped  'coreopsis' 
when  she  asked  if  they  were  sunflowers." 

"But  what  a  fool!"  cried  Hugh.  "And  she  called 
me  naughty  again  at  the  door.  Naughty!  "  he  shouted. 
"And  she  asked  herself  to  come  and  meet  Peggy.  I 
forgive  her  that,  though,  as  it  was  so  unsuccessful." 

Then  he  sat  down  by  his  wife's  chair. 

"Yes,  I  was  rude,"  he  said  suddenly.  "I  am  sorry. 
But  I  was  so  angry  when  I  came  in.  Oh,  Lord,  didn't 
I  give  it  him!" 

Hugh  flared  up  again  at  the  thought. 

"And  if  it's  that  you  want  to  talk  about,"  he  said, 
"I  don't  see  that  it's  any  use.  I  feel  I  was  perfectly 
right.  It  was  only  ludicrous  when  he  came  and  told 
me  that  'Tristan'  was  not  a  fit  opera  to  put  on  the  stage, 
and  that  I  was  devoting  my  voice — a  God-sent  gift, 
he  called  it,  in  his  horrid,  canting  way,  because  my  toe- 
nails  are  just  as  God  sent — to  evil  ends;  but  his  telling 
me  that  your  paper  wasn't  fit  to  be  read  and  discussed  at 
their  holy  and  sacred  Literific  was  not  ludicrous.  It 
didn't  amuse  me.  And  I  didn't  amuse  him." 

Hugh's  voice  rose  shrilly. 

"And  he  hadn't  even  read  it,  not  even  a  review  of 
it  this  time!"  he  said.  "What  does  the  man  mean? 
Does  he  think  that  because  he  wears  an  all-round  collar 
he  has  the  gift  of  divination,  so  that  he  can  pronounce 
on  things  he  has  never  set  eyes  on?" 

"Did  you  say  all  this?"  asked  Edith.  "Did  you 
quarrel  with  him?" 

"Yes,  but  of  course  when  I'd  finished  I  asked  him 
to  shake  hands.  I  didn't  say  a  word  that  wasn't  true. 
And  he  refused.  He  said  he  would  shake  hands  when  I 
expressed  regret  for  all  I  had  said.  He  couldn't  answer 


254  SHEAVES 

me  back;  there  was  nothing  to  say.  That's  what  he 
couldn't  forgive." 

"Tell  me  exactly  what  happened,  all  you  said  to  him," 
said  Edith  gravely. 

Hugh  was  so  worked  up  again  by  now  that  it  is  to  be 
feared  he  recounted  the  interview  with  gusto,  and  the 
completeness  with  which  he  seemed  to  have  expressed 
himself  rather  appalled  his  wife. 

"And  if  you  ask  me  if  I'm  sorry,''  he  concluded, 
"I'm  not.  He  has  a  nasty  mind  and  it  has  been  my 
privilege  to  tell  him  so.  Agnes  has  got  a  nasty  mind, 
too.  She  used  not  to  have,  she  used  to  have  quite  a 
nice  one,  like  mine,  but  he  has  corrupted  her.  Bother! 
I  wish  I'd  told  him  that.  I  thought  of  it,  but  I  forgot 
again.  I  shall  send  him  a  postcard  about  it." 

Edith  could  not  help  laughing  at  this. 

"Ah!  do  write  it  Hugh,"  she  said,  "and  then  tear 
it  up.  That  is  such  an  excellent  plan  If  I  feel  very 
angry  with  anyone  I  do  that.  I  don't  know  that  it's 
a  particularly  Christian  thing  to  do,  but  it  is  such  a 
relief.  You  gravely  write  down  all  the  nasty  things 
you  can  think  of,  and  state  them  in  the  most  cutting 
manner.  Won't  you  try  it?" 

Hugh  shook  his  had. 

"  It  wouldn't  do,"  he  said,  "because  I  should  certainly 
send  it.  I  will  with  pleasure  if  you  like." 

Edith  was  silent  a  moment. 

"But  what  are  we  to  do?"  she  said.  "You  see  you 
have  said  that  you  will  do  your  utmost  to  make  me  leave 
the  Literific,  while  I  have  sent  a  grovelling  message  by 
Mrs.  Owen  to  say  that  I  will  read  them  a  paper.  The 
situation  is  impossible.  As  it  stands,  too,  you  are  dead 
cuts  with  your  brother-in-law.  That's  impossible,  too." 

"So  is  he,"  remarked  Hugh. 


SHEAVES  255 

Edith  pulled  Hugh's  hair  gently. 

"Hugh,  I'm  going  to  talk  for  quite  a  long  time  with- 
out stopping,"  she  said.  "In  fact,  you  mustn't  con- 
sider I  have  stopped  till  I  tell  you  so.  Now,  first  of  all, 
I  just  love  you  for  having,  said  all  those  things  to  Canon 
Alington,  because  your  first  reason  was  that  you  were 
sticking  up  for  me.  Thank  you  most  awfully,  dear. 

"But  then,  do  you  know,  Hughie,  another  reason 
came  in.  You  lost  your  temper  because  you  thought 
he  was  insulting  me,  but  you  continued  to  let  it  be  lost 
because  he  has,  times  without  number,  got  on  your 
nerves.  Though  you  told  him  you  laughed  at  what 
he  said  about  'Tristan,'  you  told  him  that  in  order  to 
vex  him,  to  hurt  him." 

"This  is  what  we  used  to  call  a  pi  jaw  at  school," 
remarked  Hugh. 

"Yes,  and  you  can  call  it  one  now,  if  you  like.  You 
were  really  irritated  by  his  attitude  about  'Tristan' 
and  about  'Gambits,'  and  though  perhaps  you  laughed 
at  the  time,  this  afternoon  you  were  not  laughing  at  it 
at  all.  You  told  him  that  Peggy  would  roar" about  it 
for  the  same  reason,  in  order  to  vex  him,  and  you  sent 
that  message  by  Mrs.  Owen  about  the  Nineteenth  Century 
for  the  same  reason.  I  didn't  ask  you  not  to  then, 
because  it  would  have  looked  to  her  as  if  you  and  I  were 
at  discord.  But  I  wish  you  hadn't;  she  is  quite — quite 
tactless  enough  to  give  it  him. 

"Now,  my  darling,  you  mustn't  do  things  to  vex 
people.  It  isn't  you  when  you  do  that.  It  wasn't 
you  this  afternoon ;  it  was  your  anger  on  my  account  that 
left  the  door  open,  and  the  devil  got  in.  It  is  so  cheap, 
and  eas^,  and  vulgar  to  be  angry,  and  to  try  to  vex 
people.  And,  believe  me,  it  never  does  any  good  at  all, 
Anger  is  one  of  the  two  absolutely  indefensible  and 


256  SHEAVES 

useless  emotions,  and  the  other  is  fear.  Oh,  Hughie, 
what  dreadful  twins!" 

Hugh  moved  impatiently,  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders. 
He  had  shifted  his  seat  on  the  grass,  so  that  he  sat  side- 
ways to  her  and  could  look  at- her,  and  he  saw  that  her 
mouth  was  trembling  a  little. 

"Anger  frightens  me,"  she  said,  "and  makes  me 
afraid;  that  is  why  it  and  fear  seem  to  me  like  twins. 
The  atmosphere  of  it  is  so  dreadful ;  it  is  heavy  and  close 
as  before  a  thunderstorm.  I  can't  breathe  in  it,  and 
whether  you  are  angry  with  me  or  with  him  or  with  any- 
one else,  it  is  only  a  question  of  degree.  There  is  poison 
about.  It  is  such  a  waste  of  time,  too.  One  enjoys 
nothing  when  one  is  angry;  the  hours  just  shrivel  up 
and  die,  instead  of  putting  out  flowers.  I  can't  help 
being  proud  of  and  loving  the  first  motive  that  put  anger 
into  your  heart,  dear,  but  that  is  quite  inconsistent  and 
quite  wrong  of  me.  But  for  the  rest — 

"Oh,  but  you  are  wrong,"  said  Hugh.  "I  enjoyed 
being  angry  this  afternoon.  It  put  out  some  beautiful 
flowers." 

"But  what  part  of  you  enjoyed  it?"  she  asked. 
"  Not  the  part  I  love  and  am  so  proud  of." 

She  leaned  forward  to  him  and  spoke  more  gently. 

"Oh,  Hugh,  let  us  be  kind,"  she  said.  "  Don't  let  us 
try  to  improve  people,  or  tell  them  that  they  are  wrong, 
and  narrow,  and  bigoted,  and  Puritanical.  Let  them 
be  all  that  if  they  wish;  it  really  is  their  business  and 
not  ours.  But  do  let  us  be  kind,  for  that  beyond  any 
doubt  is  our  business,  and  leave  it  to  others  to  be  good 
for  them.  It  is  so  frightfully  easy  to  be  good  for  other 
peo-ole  and  to  speak  sharply  to  them  when  we  think  they 
are  Sehaving  absurdly,  but  generally  our  motives  for 
doing  that  are  a  little  mixed;  we  do  it  because  we  are 


SHEAVES  257 

sour  and  angry  ourselves,  and  rather  enjoy  spoiling  their 
pleasure." 

The  spell  was  beginning  to  work.  Hugh  had  ceased 
fidgeting,  and  looked  at  her  with  the  quiver  of  a  smile 
on  his  mouth. 

"Besides,  it  is  such  fun  being  kind  and  not  bitter," 
she  said,  "and  being  big  and  not  small.  Yes,  small,  for 
angry  people  are  always  small  and  narrow,  and  for  an 
angry  man  to  call  another  one  narrow  is  for  the  pot  to 
call  the  kettle  black." 

Hugh  had  a  slight  relapse  for  a  moment,  and  groaned. 

"  But  think  what  a  state  of  holy  exultation  he  will  be 
in,"  he  said,  "if  you  meekly  say  you  will  write  another 
paper  and  I,  well — I  suppose  you  mean  me  to  express 
regret  for  what  I  said.  Edith,  I  don't  think  I  can  bear 
the  thought  of  it.  He  will  feel  that  he  is  being  an  instru- 
ment for  good,  and  that  his  efforts  and  his  bravery  and 
his  determination  to  speak  out  at  whatever  personal 
cost  are  being  blessed.  They  aren't,  they  aren't,  they 
are  not!  Are  they!" 

Hugh  rolled  over  on  the  ground  in  a  sort  of  agony  at 
the  thought. 

"Agnes  will  call  him  Galahad  more  than  ever,"  he 
went  on,  "and  Mrs.  Owen  will  dedicate  the  Galahad 
cycle  to  him,  and  Ambrose  will  feel  that  the  early 
Christian  martyrs  couldn't  hold  a  candle  to  his  blessed 
father— I  wish  they  had — and  they  will  all  sit  in  a  row 
with  seraphic  smiles  and  know  how  noble,  and  holy, 
and  happy  they  all  are,  and  especially  that  ass.  He  is 
an  ass  and  a  prig!  And,  oh,  dear  me,  Edith,  how 
dreadfully  funny  it  all  is!  But  I  must,  I  absolutely 
must,  tell  Peggy  about  it.  Supposing  she  happened 
to  find  out,  how  dreadfully  unkind  she  would  think  me 
for  not  having  told  her." 


258  SHEAVES 

Edith  had  the  highest  opinion  of  the  value  of  a  sense 
of  humour,  and  often,  so  it  appeared  to  her,  it  would  solve 
a  situation,  and  restore  a  cheerful  equanimity  or  even 
more  to  the  sufferer  from  that  situation,  whereas  an 
appeal  to  higher  motives  for  tolerance  might  have  been 
made  in  vain.  And  whether  it  was  her  words  or  Hugh's 
own  innate  sense  of  the  ludicrous  that  had  thus  restored 
him,  she  did  not  care  at  all.  Something,  anyhow,  she 
or  it  or  himself,  had  dissipated  his  anger,  and  given  him 
back  the  genial,  though  amused,  outlook  that  a  little 
while  ago  had  been  shrouded  from  him.  His  laughter, 
his  rolling  on  the  grass  were  kindly  again,  and  kindliness, 
as  she  had  said,  she  reckoned  as  a  master-key  to  conduct. 
He  might  laugh  at  Canon  Alington  as  much  as  he  liked ; 
he  might  laugh  (and  probably  would)  at  her  and  her 
"pi  jaw,"  provided  only  he  laughed  not  bitterly.  His 
desire,  too,  to  tell  Peggy,  as  expressed  just  now,  was 
whole  worlds  away  from  what  his  desire  had  been  when 
he  suggested  the  same  thing  to  Mrs.  Owen.  He  was 
kind  again,  and  Edith  felt  as  if  some  blot  or  stain  had 
been  taken  off  her  own  character. 

But  though  kind  again,  Hugh  immediately  got  grave 
again.  After  his  agonised  roll  on  the  grass  he  sat  up, 
and  clasping  his  knees  with  his  hands,  leaned  his  chin 
on  them,  and  looked  at  her  with  that  kindled  eye. 

"Are  you  David?"  he  said — "are  you  David 
leincarnated  that  you  expel  evil  spirits?" 

Then  Edith  knew  that  it  did  matter  whether  it  was 
she  or  Hugh's  own  sense  of  humour  that  had  restored 
him.  She  had  told  herself  it  did  not ;  nor  indeed  in  the 
abstract  did  it,  but  it  mattered  so  much  to  her. 

"Oh,  Hugh,  did  I  help?"  she  asked.     "I  am  so  glad!" 

"Go  on,"  said  he,  "the  evil  spirit  is  only  half-exorcised 
yet." 


SHEAVES  259 

"Ah,  I  have  said  it  all!"  she  protested,  "and  I  am 
afraid  I  was  very  lengthy  about  it.  But  I  think  it 
was  all  true,  Hughie.  Oh,  I  know  it  was!" 

He  smiled  at  her,  waiting,  entreating. 

"Ah,  there  you  are,  shining,  shining,"  he  said.  "And 
I  can't  reach  you.  Tell  ms  what  you  feel  like  inside 
that  makes  you  what  you  are.  I  want  to  get  at  it,  and 
I  can't.  It  isn't  that  you  keep  it  back — oh,  I  know 
that — but  I  am  not  tall  enough!" 

For  one  moment  she  tried  to  laugh  it  off. 

"I  see  you  want  to  make  me  talk  like  Ambrose," 
she  said. 

"Yes,  darling;  you  do  it  so  naturally,"  said  Hugh. 
"So  go  on." 

Again  she  leaned  forward  toward  his  radiant  face. 

"There  is  no  impulse  I  can  teach  you,  dear,"  she  said, 
"and  you  can  only  teach  yourself,  or  let  years  teach  you 
all  the  rest,  which  is  practice.  I  have  had  so  much 
more  practice  than  you,  simply  because  I  am  so  much 
older.  It  is  only  that,  for  one  requires  the  same  situa- 
tion to  be  presented  to  one  hundreds  and  thousands  of 
times  before  one  really  draws  the  moral.  And  I  have 
so  often  seen  my  own  anger  making  misery  not  only  for 
others  but  for  myself,  that  at  last  I  began  really 
to  connect  the  two.  One  is  like  a  puppy  for  so  many 
years,  and  it  takes  one  a  lot  of  beating  and  being  tied 
up  to  realise  that  it  is  not  a  good  plan  to  gnaw  other 
people's  shoes  or  to  snap  at  other  people's  hands.  And 
slowly — oh,  my  Hugh,  so  slowly — I  have  learned  a  sort 
of  patience,  a  sort  of  toleration  for  other  people's  opin- 
ions. I  have  actually  begun  to  believe  that  there  are 
other  people  in  the  world  beside  myself,  and  that  they 
have  just  as  good  a  right  to  their  opinion  as  I  have  to 
mine,  and  that  when  I  happen  to  disagree  with  them 


26o  SHEAVES 

it  may  be  just  possible,  as  Oliver  Cromwell  said,  that  I 
may  be  mistaken.  Sometimes,  as  about  this  unfortu- 
nate paper  of  mine,  my  reasonable  self  tells  me  that  I  am 
right  and  they  are  wrong.  Yes,  I  will  concede  that  now. 
But  what  then?  I  may  be  mistaken.  At  any  rate,  at 
that  point  the  law  of  kindness  comes  in.  They  don't 
want  this  paper;  in  fact,  your  sister  said  she  would 
resign — now  be  kind — rather  than  send  out  the  notices. 
But  why,  why  because  I  disagree  should  I  make  a  fuss, 
and  cause  unpleasantness?  Do  let  us  all  be  as  happy 
and  pleasant  as  we  can.  I  know  perfectly  well  that  all 
of  them  are  acting  up  to  their  best  motives ;  they  really 
think  that  the  subject  I  chose  was  not  a  fit  one.  So 
I  should  be  acting  on  the  very  worst  motive  if  I  tried 
to  embarrass  or  vex  them.  You  and  I  lose  none  of  our 
happiness  or  pleasure  if  I  write  something  else;  and 
even  if  we  did,  perhaps  it  wouldn't  matter  very  much. 
We  have  got  plenty  left,  haven't  we?" 

She  sat  upright  again  for  a  moment,  and  let  her  eyes 
wander  over  the  lawn,  the  quiet  trees,  the  gray  back  of 
the  down,  the  green  water-meadow  below.  Then  they 
came  back  to  Hugh. 

"It  is  silly  to  talk  about  the  paper,"  she  said,  "for 
the  whole  thing  is  so  infinitesimal.  But  it  did  happen 
to  be  the  text  when  you  bade  me  discourse.  And,  after 
all,  either  nothing  is  infinitesimal,  or  else  everything  is. 
Oh,  my  dear,  if  we  think  of  the  thousand  generations 
that  came  before  us,  and  will  come  after,  who  laugh  and 
love  and  hate  and  are  angry,  what  do  you  and  I  matter? 
But  we  matter  to  God.  He  has  chosen  to  put  the  infinite 
within  us.  Because  we  are  human,  we  have  to  make 
finite  things  of  it,  but  let  xis  make  them  as  big  as  we  can." 

She  rose  with  shining  eyes,  and  stretched  out  her  two 
hands  to  him. 


SHEAVES  261 

"  It  is  getting  damp,"  she  said.     "  Let  me  pull  you  up." 

"You  have,"  said  he. 

In  the  gathering  dusk  they  walked  for  a  while  without 
speech.  Something  had  come  home  to  Hugh;  there 
was  a  fresh  inmate  at  his  secret  hearth.  Words,  mere 
words,  which  are  falsely  supposed  to  be  so  ineffectual 
had  brought  it  there,  but  the  words  had  been  winged 
with  sincerity.  Tiny  though  now  the  whole  scullery- 
storm  appeared,  he  saw  how  big  was  the  woman  who 
had  made  it  appear  tiny.  She  moved  naturally  on  that 
wonderful  level,  and  it  was  just  because  she  was  so  big 
that  she  had  treated  this  little  thing  like  that.  She  had 
brought  all  the  fineness  of  her  nature  to  bear  on  it;  she 
had  not  disproved  it  with  indulgent  impatience  merely, 
saying  that  since  these  ridiculous  people  had  such 
ridiculous  feelings,  she  would  humour  them,  rather  than 
cause  unpleasantness,  but  she  had  turned  on  to  the 
situation  all  the  kindliness  and  wisdom  that  she  pos- 
sessed. Small  though  the  occasion  was,  it  had  been  to 
her  part  of  life  itself,  in  which  every  detail  is  piece  of  the 
design.  He  waited  further  instructions  about  these 
details. 

"And  what  am  I  to  do?"  he  asked. 

She  laughed. 

"  Humble  pie,  dear,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so.  Oh,  Lord!  Why  did  I  lose  my 
temper?" 

"For  a  reason  that  I  love,"  said  she.  "But  for 
other  reasons." 

"And  must  I  go — and — and  absolutely  say  so?" 
he  asked. 

"Oh,  Hughie,  it's  no  question  of  'must,'  unless  you 
know  it  is  'must,'  °  she  said. 

He  took  his  arm  out  of  hers. 


262  SHEAVES 

"Then  I'll  go  now,"  he  said.  "There  will  be  time 
before  dinner.  You  see,  I'm  sorry  just  now." 

"Yes,  go  now,"  she  said. 

"And  I  may  tell  Peggy  to-morrow?"  he  asked. 

Hugh  left  her  at  once,  and  went  quickly  down  through 
the  field  below  the  house  and  struck  into  the  footpath 
which  led  across  to  St  Olaf's.  As  he  got  near  the  church, 
he  saw  the  congregation  beginning  to  stream  out,  and 
knew  that  if  he  waited  by  the  door  from  the  vestry  he 
would  catch  his  brother-in-law,  after  he  had  taken  off 
his  surplice  and  counted  the  offertory,  the  gifts  of  Alexan- 
der the  coppersmith,  as  he  had  once  said,  when  his 
appeal  for  foreign  missions  had  provoked  too  great  a 
proportion  of  coin  of  the  low  denomination.  From 
within,  with  the  congregation  there  poured  out  the 
melodious  din  of  the  organ,  and  that,  with  the  effect  of 
the  stained-glass  windows,  lit  from  within,  reminded 
Hugh  irresistibly  of  the  church-scene  in  "Faust,"  when 
Mephistopheles  waits  outside  for  Marguerite,  exactly 
as  he  himself  was  doing.  In  that  case  Canon  Alington 
must  be  Marguerite,  and  he  shook  with  an  internal 
spasm  of  laughter  at  the  thought,  that  for  the  moment 
made  him  forget  his  humiliating  errand. 

He  was  standing  in  the  shadow  close  to  the  porch  by 
which  the  Faust-congregation  were  coming  out,  with 
one  eye  on  them,  one  on  the  vestry  door,  from  which 
small  choir-boys  occasionally  popped  out  like  rabbits,  and 
ran  across  the  grave-yard  with  a  swift  reaction  toward 
ordinary  life  after  the  two  long  services  of  the  day. 
Ambrose,  who  had  lately  been  admitted  to  the  choir 
(his  father  had  compiled  a  short  service  for  the  induc- 
tion of  a  cantator)  came  out  among  them,  but  without 
racings  and  leapings,  for  he  always  had  a  bad  accession 
of  virtuous  musings  on  Sunday  evening,  and  walked 


SHEAVES  263 

round  to  the  main  door  to  m2et  his  mother,  with  his 
boots  creaking  and  the  starlight  shining  on  his  spectacles, 
humming  to  himself  in  a  husky  treble  the  hymn  that  had 
just  been  sung.  His  mother  always  came  out  last  from 
the  Vicarage  pew,  and  Ambrose  had  to  wait  while  the 
remainder  of  the  congregation  dispersed. 

Hugh  had  turned  his  back  on  the  door,  for  he  really 
could  not  bear  that  his  nephew  should  recognise  him 
just  then,  when  a  strangely  and  dreadfully  familiar 
voice  close  behind  him  struck  on  his  ear.  Mrs.  Owen 
had  hardly  waited  to  get  outside  the  porch  before  she 
spoke. 

"Oh!  Mrs.  Alington,"  she  said;  "such  good  news. 
I  must  just  tell  you  before  I  go  round  to  see  dear  Canon 
Alington  and  tell  him,  too.  I  was  with  the  Graingers 
till  nearly  seven,  talking  it  all  over,  and  dear  Mrs. 
Grainger  quite  sees  our  point  of  view  now.  She  is  so 
anxious  now  to  do  the  right  thing,  and  she  will  be  sure 
to  have  a  paper  ready  by  Friday  which  shall  not  touch 
on  that  dreadful  subject.  We  were  all  of  one  mind 
about  it — quite  a  family  party." 

Then  Agnes's  precise  tones  broke  in. 

"I  am  sure  we  are  all  very  much  obliged  to  you  for 
your  part  in  it,  Mrs.  Owen,"  she  said.  "It  must  have 
required  a  great  deal  of  tact  and  sympathetic  treatment. 
I  am  afraid,  however,  that  my  brother  allowed  himself 
to  speak  very  violently  and  rudely  to  the  Canon.  Could 
you  do  anything  with  him?" 

It  struck  Hugh  at  this  moment  that  he  was  eaves- 
dropping, but  he  felt  perfectly  incapable  of  moving. 
What  richness  might  not  be  in  store  for  him  in  Mrs. 
Owen's  reply!  STie  was  quite  capable  of  implying,  any- 
how, that  her  tact  had  been  at  work  here,  too.  She 
gave  her  little  peal-of-bells  laugh. 


264  SHEAVES 

"You  quite  make  a  fairy-godmother  of  me!"  she 
cried;  "as  if  I  have  but  to  wave  my  wand,  and  wishes 
come  true.  What  shall  I  say?  Did  a  little  bird  tell 
me  that  everything  would  go  smoothly,  that  we  should 
all  be  friends  again?  What  do  you  guess?" 

Hugh  moved  quietly  toward  the  vestry  door,  and  en- 
tered, closing  it  after  him.  Canon  Alington  had  just 
finished  counting  the  offertory,  which  again  was  slightly 
Alexandrine,  and  was  putting  it  away  in  a  stout  wash- 
leather  bag,  and  he  was  alone. 

"Look  here,  Dick!"  said  Hugh.  "I  want  two  words 
with  you.  I  oughtn't  to  have  said  all  those  things  to  you 
this  afternoon;  I'm  sorry.  I  came  down  to  tell  you  so." 

Canon  Alington  was  quick  in  responses. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand, 
"never  say  another  word  about  it." 

They  shook  hands,  and  a  discreet  tap  came  at  the  outer 
door  of  the  vestry  by  which  Hugh  had  entered. 

"That's  Mrs.  Owen,"  he  whispered,  "and  she  mustn't 
see  me.  I  shall  go  out  through  the  church.  Good- 
night, Dick!" 

Supper  at  the  Vicarage  on  Sunday  evening  was  of  the 
simple  kind,  "cold  cow  and  coney  tart,"  as  the  Vicar 
habitually  described  it,  and  when  it  was  over  and 
Ambrose  and  Perpetua  had  gone  to  bed,  he  and  his  wife 
talked  over  the  happy  turn  that  events  had  taken. 

"A  wonderful  woman,"  said  he,  referring  to  their 
dea  ex-machina,  "and  it  is  a  privilege  to  know  her.  She 
will  have  a  great  influence,  I  already  foresee,  over  the 
Graingers.  Think  what  she  did  in  but  an  hour's  talk  this 
afternoon!  Hugh's  expressions  to  me  only  just  before 
church  were  very  violent,  very  violent  indeed,  and  now 
the  dear  fellow  runs  down  to  withdraw  them  completely." 


SHEAVES  265 

"And  she  is  so  modest  about  it,  too,"  said  Agnes. 
"She  wouldn't  even  allow  she  had  influenced  Hugh  at 
all.  She  had  some  pretty  expression  about  a  little  bird 
having  told  her  that  everything  would  be  smooth,  and 
that  was  all." 

They  were  walking  up  and  down  the  gravel-path 
outside  the  front  door,  and  the  Canon  took  his  wife's 
arm. 

"And  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  she  has  done  much 
more  than  that,"  he  said.  "I  daresay  she  has  induced 
Edith  to  destroy  her  paper.  What  a  revolution  to  have 
worked  in  an  hour  or  two!  I  have  no  doubt  that  Edith 
is  as  sorry  for  having  written  it  as  is  Hugh  for  having 
said  what  he  did  this  afternoon.  Blessed  indeed  are  the 
peacemakers!" 

It  was  perhaps  lucky  for  the  Canon's  peacemaker 
mind  that  he  could  not  see  what  Mrs.  Owen  was  doing 
at  this  moment.  A  cigarette  (the  second  to-day)  was 
between  her  lips,  and  she  was  eagerly  reading  the  type- 
written sheets  which  Edith  had  given  her 


CHAPTER  XIII 

EDITH  was  lying  on  a  sofa  under  the  trees  at  the 
edge  of  the  lawn  at  Chalkpits,  in  charge,  so  a 
stranger  would  guess,  of  a  private  lunatic  asylum.  A 
knight  in  silver  armour  was  drinking  tea  out  of  a  slop 
basin,  while  Little  Red  Riding  Hood  and  the  gentle- 
man in  the  railway-carriage  in  Alice  in  Wonderland, 
who  was  dressed  entirely  in  paper,  having  finished  tea, 
were  employed  in  rolling  down  the  bank  on  to  the  lawn 
to  see  who  could  "get  giddiest."  This  was  not  very 
good  for  the  costume  of  the  gentleman  in  newspaper, 
as  he  tore,  and  also  was  getting  so  green  that  Lohengrin 
warned  him  that  there  wouldn't  be  a  square  inch  read- 
able anywhere  if  he  went  on.  But  he  retorted  that  he 
had  read  all  of  himself  that  he  wanted  to,  and  had  got 
knickerbockers  on  underneath,  which  was  an  unassailable 
position. 

Lohengrin  lived  in  a  swan,  of  course ;  Red  Riding  Hood 
in  a  cottage,  and  the  other  gentleman  in  a  rail  way - 
carriage;  and  they  were  all  pirates  as  well,  and  had  to 
get  trophies  from  each  other's  houses  without  being 
caught,  and  no  householder,  of  course,  was  allowed  to 
hang  about  his  own  front-door  or  else  he  couldn't  help 
catching  any  pirate  who  had  been  paying  him  an  official 
visit.  Daisy  and  Jim  finally  were  allowed  to  run, 
whereas  Hugh  might  only  walk,  and  if  he  got  any  more 
trophies  without  being  caught  he  was  going  to  be  con- 
fined to  hopping,  because  he  had  already  got  nine, 
whereas  Red  Riding  Hood  and  the  gentleman  in  news- 
paper had  only  got  three  each,  and  twelve  was  game. 

266 


SHEAVES  267 

The  costumes  had  been  adopted  partly  because  it  was 
such  fun  to  dress  up,  and  partly  because  it  was  so  easy 
in  ordinary  clothes  to  avoid  being  seen  if  you  crouched 
among  the  bushes,  and  so  nobody  got  caught  at  all. 
But  it  was  almost  hopeless  for  a  knight  in  silver  armour 
or  a  person  in  a  scarlet  cloak  or  one  in  newspaper  to 
find  any  background  against  which  protective  mimicry 
would  offer  concealment. 

Lohengrin  had  not  quite  finished  the  contents  of  the 
slop-basin  when  he  slowly  sank  out  of  sight  behind  the 
tea-table,  and  whispered  "  Mutual  enemies"  to  the  other 
pirates,  for  a  carriage  was  coming  up  the  drive,  and  it 
might  be  callers  who  would  come  out  to  have  tea.  From 
there  by  crawling  on  the  hands  and  knees  it  was  possible 
to  get  behind  an  elm  without  leaving  cover;  and  to  get 
from  there  behind  the  box-hedge  that  separated  the 
lawn  from  the  kitchen-garden  without  being  seen  was 
child's-play  to  any  proper  pirate.  But  the  carriage, 
whatever  it  was,  only  drove  to  the  front  door,  left  cards 
and  departed.  . 

Edith  thought  of  calling  to  the  pirates  to  tell  them  the 
coast  was  clear,  but  on  second  thoughts  she  did  not, 
for  she  was,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  not  sorry  to  have  a  little 
cessation  of  the  riot  that  had  been  going  on  since  lunch. 
This  hot  day  of  mid-September,  to  her  so  languid  and 
enervating,  seemed  but  to  have  strung  up  to  the  highest 
pitch  of  activity  the  other  children,  among  whom  she  in- 
cluded her  husband, though  not  her  two-months-old  baby. 
Peggy  was  with  them,  too,  and  people  had  come  to  lunch, 
and  frankly  she  felt  that  a  little  truce  from  the  high  spirits 
with  which  she  was  surrounded  might  tend  to  rais^ 
her  own.  She  wanted  to  sit  and  think,  she  wanted  to 
examine  the  causes  of  a  depression  under  which  she  had 
been  suffering  for  the  last  week  or  two,  and  assure  herself 


268  SHEAVES 

that  it  was  all  groundless,  or  at  any  rate,  had  root 
merely  in  physical  soil,  and  was  not  concerned  with 
essential  things.  She  told  herself  she  knew  that  it  must 
be  so,  but  at  the  present  moment  she  did  not  realise 
it  in  at  all  a  convincing  manner. 

Her  son  had  been  born  in  the  middle  of  July,  and  from 
that  day  to  this  had  grown  and  thriven  in  the  most 
satisfactory  way-.  Even  in  the  midst  of  her  present 
tiredness  and  unexplained  depression  the  glow  of  retro- 
spective happiness  kindled  in  her  face  when  she  thought 
of  the  moment  when  she  had  seen  this  child  in  Hugh's 
arms,  and  from  that  day  to  this  the  miracle  of  mother- 
hood had  to  her  lost  no  whit  of  its  wonder.  All  had 
gone  excellently  well  with  her  also;  her  recovery  had 
been  rapid  and  sound,  until  one  day  in  August  when  she 
had  caught  a  little  chill.  She  soon,  however,  recovered 
from  that,  too,  but  letting  herself  dwell  for  a  moment  on 
this  purely  physical  side  of  things,  she  knew  that  she  had 
not  felt  quite  well  since.  Yet  she  did  not  think  that  her 
discomfort  was  anything  more  than  was  easily  accounted 
for  by  the  birth  of  her  baby,  the  chill  following,  and  the 
very  hot  and  oppressive  weather  that  had  continued 
right  up  till  to-day.  She  must  look  further  than  that 
for  the  cause. 

A  large  hopping  figure  in  silver  mail  crossed  the  open- 
ing in  the  yew  hedge  that  led  into  the  kitchen  garden, 
pursued  by  a  diminutive  one  in  scarlet.  They  were 
visible  only  for  a  second,  but  immediately  afterward  there 
came  a  passionate  cry  of  protest  in  a  tenor  voice  and 
shrill  treble  scream  of  exultation.  And  that  she  well 
knew  contained  a  deeper  cause  for  disquietude  than  any 
she  had  thought  of  yet.  Once  last  spring  she  had 
reminded  Hugh  that  he  was  in  actual  years  nearer  Daisy's 
age  than  her  own,  and  Hugh,  all  unconscious,  was  now 


SHEAVES  269 

demonstrating  to  her  the  truth  of  her  own  statement. 
Deep  and  abiding,  as  she  had  no  need  to  tell  herself,  as 
was  his  love  for  her,  thoroughly  as  she  satisfied  all  the 
needs  of  his  spirit,  yet,  so  she  told  herself  now,  that  was 
not  all  he  wanted.  At  his  age  he  must  want  somebody 
to  play  with,  not  only  as  regards  the  riotous  activities 
of  pirates,  but  in  the  corresponding  play  of  the  mind. 
Everyone,  whatever  his  age  was,  wanted,  perhaps  most 
of  all,  the  society  of  contemporaries.  The  abandon- 
ment with  which  he  romped  with  Peggy's  children  was 
no  more  than  a  superficial  and  bodily  example  of  the 
sort  of  thing  he  needed.  With  his  lightness  and  activity 
of  youth  it  was  more  nearly  his  natural  mode  of  pro- 
gression to  jump  flower-beds  than  to  walk  slowly  as  he 
had  done  so  often  and  so  delightedly  by  her  bathchair; 
and  his  mind,  she  told  herself,  was  more  like  a  child's 
in  its  processes  and  manner  of  progress  than  it  was  like 
hers.  It  was  not  only  in  the  body  that  she  was  beginning 
to  feel  the  difference  of  age  between  them. 

It  was  rather  a  dreadful  thought,  but  Edith  could  not 
help  thinking  that  Daisy,  in  the  childish,  unformulated 
manner  of  eleven  years  old,  was  conscious  of  this.  Months 
ago  now  she  had  told  Hugh  that  Daisy  did  not  like  her, 
and  was  jealous  of  her,  considering  that  she  had  taken 
"her  Hugh"  away.  But  to-day  it  seemed  to  her  that 
Daisy  understood  the  position  better,  that  she  knew 
now  that  "her  Hugh"  very  largely  remained  to  her,  as 
indeed,  so  Edith  felt,  he  did.  Not  that  Daisy  for  a 
moment  felt  anything  of  malicious  or  precocious  pleas- 
ure in  it;  merely  her  childish  instinct  realised  that 
though  in  a  way  her  aunt  had  taken  Hugh,  yet  this 
appropriation  had  not  caused  any  change  in  her  idol. 
He  still  played  as  beautifully  as  ever,  and  took  exactly 
the  same  comprehending  interest  in  her  affairs  as  he 


27o  SHEAVES 

always  had  done — a  trait,  in  Daisy's  experience,  not 
very  common  among  grown-up  people,  who  merely 
played  as  if  they  were  playing,  not  as  if  it  all  were  real. 
To  Hugh  it  was  real;  that  made  the  line  of  demarca- 
tion between  him  and  her  mother  or  her  aunt;  or,  in 
other  words,  he  was  young.  Indeed,  only  this  morning 
Daisy  had  said  she  was  busy,  for  she  was  going  to  amuse 
Hugh.  They  were  found  playing  Tom  Tiddler's  Ground 
immediately  afterward,  and  Hugh  was  quite  certainly 
being  amused. 

And  then  poor  Edith  had  a  very  bad  quarter  of  an 
hour  indeed.  She  suddenly  saw  that  in  all  those  moments 
in  which  Hugh  had  seemed  to  himself  to  be  most  utterly 
absorbed  in  her,  and  to  be,  in  his  own  phrase,  searching 
after  her  as  she  shone  above  him,  he  was  in  truth  feeling 
most  keenly  the  difference  in  their  years.  She  had  said 
it  herself,  too,  to  him;  she  had  told  him  in  that  talk 
they  had  with  regard  to  the  question  of  Nelson's  letters 
that  there  was  no  impulse  of  kindness  she  could  give 
him,  it  was  merely  a  question  of  practice  in  deeds  of 
kindness  until  the  habit  was  formed,  practice  in  the 
rejection  of  anger  till  the  root  of  anger  in  the  soul  had 
withered.  It  was  as  if  her  words  had  been  steeped  in 
the  bitter  brine  of  truth,  and  had  been  sent  back  to  her. 
On  all  those  innumerable  occasions  when  he  had  besought 
her  to  teach  him,  to  show  herself  to  this  loving  pupil, 
his  words  and  his  feelings  interpreted  and  looked  at  by 
the  dry  light  of  truth  meant  simply  "Make  me  older." 
She  was  powerless  to  do  it,  and  even  if  she  had  not  been, 
dearly  as  she  prized  his  love  and  companionship,  she 
would  not  have  done  so  selfish  a  thing.  It  was  possible 
indeed  to  get  old  in  mind  and  soul  quickly,  as  she  at  one 
time  had  been  in  danger  of  doing,  in  the  heat  and  air- 
lessness  of  sorrow  and  bitterness,  and  she  knew  well 


SHEAVES  271 

how  unremitting  the  struggle  had  been  to  her  to  get 
back  into  kindly  ways  again.  No  one  could  desire  for 
one  they  loved  the  forcing  heat,  so  to  speak,  of  pain 
instead  of  the  slower  maturity  that  was  arrived  at 
through  the  joys  of  living,  and  in  any  case  it  could  not 
be  applied  at  will.  God  had  bitter  drugs  in  his  huge 
pharmacy,  it  is  true,  but  none  might  use  them  but  He. 

Her  baby,  that  was  to  have  made  their  union  perfect, 
that  was  to  have  fused  them  so  that  there  was  no  joint 
visible,  what  of  that?  There  again  she  had  made  a 
mistake,  for,  as  she  saw  now,  she  had  construed  father- 
hood by  the  word  motherhood.  What  it  had  been  to 
her  she  had  underrated,  but  (it  as  as  well  to  say  it) 
she  had  overrated  what  it  had  been  to  him.  As  Peggy 
had  said,  the  morning  stars  shouted  together  when  a 
woman  saw  her  child  in  his  father's  arms,  but  that  music 
of  the  spheres  sounded  louder  in  her  ear  than  in  his. 
Hugh  had  been  delighted,  overjoyed  at  the  event,  and 
even  a  month  afterwards  it  had  taken  all  her  persuasion 
to  get  him  to  go  away  up  to  Scotland  for  a  few  weeks' 
shooting,  from  which  he  had  returned  only  a  couple  of 
days  ago,  but  he  had  gone,  and  his  letters,  so  frequent, 
so  long,  so  full  of  affection,  had  all  unconsciously  reeked 
of  his  own  immense  enjoyment.  She  had  read  them 
over  and  over  again,  pleased  at  his  pleasure,  thrilled 
at  the  excitement  of  the  heavy  fish  he  had  played  so 
long,  almost  stunned  by  its  tragic  loss,  and  revelling  in 
the  good  time  he  was  having.  Yet  every  now  and  then, 
like  some  faint  internal  pain,  had  come  the  thought, 
"He  can  be  absorbed  in  those  things!" 

Yet  the  fact  that  this  pained  her  contradicted  all  the 
feelings  of  her  best  self.  It  had  required  great  persuasion 
to  make  him  go;  it  required  persuasion  also  to  make 
him  stay  away  and  not  curtail  his  visits;  and  all  that 


272  SHEAVES 

was  best  in  her  wished  him  to  see  his  friends,  wished 
him  to  enjoy  himself  immensely;  for  the  very  simple 
reason  that  his  pleasure  was  hers  and  that  at  his  age  it 
was  natural  and  proper  and  right  for  him  to  be  active 
and  sociable.  She  would  not  really  have  had  him  tied 
to  her  apron  strings;  nothing  was  so  selfish  and 
unwomanly  as  that,  nothing  also,  so  her  wordly  wisdom 
had  taught  her,  was  so  unwise.  Women — it  was  the 
old  banal  simile,  but  she  felt  it  was  applicable — were 
like  the  ivy;  as  long  as  they  could  clasp  the  oak  they 
wanted  no  more.  But  how  different  was  the  oak; 
birds  built  in  it,  it  threw  out  strong,  unsupported 
branches  into  the  sky,  it  liked  the  wind  to  sing  in  it, 
and  the  rain  to  cleanse  it,  and  the  sun  to  lighten  it.  It 
could  not  grow  without  these  things  But  the  ivy 
wanted  to  cling  only;  there  was  the  difference.  And 
the  older  it  grew  its  instinct  was  to  cling  the  more 
tightly. 

Yet  women,  as  she  had  proved,  as  the  crowded  play- 
house and  the  tears  and  laughter  which  rained  over  her 
play  had  proved,  could  do  more  than  cling.  She  until 
her  marriage  had  been  both  busy  and  happy,  and  never 
a  day  passed  which  did  not  seem  too  short  for  her  occupa- 
tions. She  had  been  used  to  weed,  to  garden  to  plan 
the  procession  of  flowers,  so  that  her  beds  would  always 
have  the  torch  of  flower-life  burning,  and  yet  all  the 
time  she  planned  the  busy  current  of  her  mental  life 
would  be  flowing  on  still,  so  that  again  and  again  she 
would  stop  in  her  manual  employment,  or  in  the  exercise 
of  the  more  superficial  ingenuity  that  the  beds  demanded, 
to  register  some  dramatic  conclusion,  some  outcome 
of  the  life  of  her  imaginary  folk.  How  intensely  she 
had  been  absorbed  in  the  ordering  of  the  vegetable  life 
around  her,  and  how  much  more  intensely  absorbed  in 


SHEAVES  273 

the  creations  of  her  mind,  and  how  happy  she  had  been 
in  it  all!  Then  came  a  much  larger  happiness,  one 
infinitely  more  absorbing,  more  possessing.  And — was 
it  from  mere  indolence,  or  what? — she  had  suffered  the 
other  to  wither,  she  had  let  the  lights  go  out  in  the 
theatre  of  her  mind,  leaving  it  dark  and  tenantless. 
Hugh  had  called  her  out  into  the  true  sunshine.  Often 
and  often  during  this  last  year  she  had  gone  indoors,  so 
to  speak,  to  look  after  the  theatre  of  her  mind  and  con- 
struct and  plan  fresh  adventure  for  her  puppets,  but  she 
had  not  been  able  to  attend  to  them  with  that  conscious 
enthusiasm  which  alone,  as  she  well  knew,  is  able  to 
make  the  creations  of  the  brain  alive  both  to  their 
creator  and  the  world;  if  she  propped  one  up  she  let 
another  fall  down,  and  left  it  lying,  and  if  she  made  one 
speak  she  let  another  yawn.  She  felt  herself  not  really 
believing  in  them;  at  the  best  they  were  only  part  of 
herself,  and  even  with  them  she  was  alone  still.  It  was 
that  which  was  the  matter  with  her. 

And  at  that  word  the  very  gate  of  hell  began  to  swing 
open ;  no  hell  of  flames  and  burning,  but  the  hell  of  cold 
darkness,  which  is  always  ready  to  be  called  into  being 
by  any  soul  who  believes  in  it.  At  that  moment  she 
felt  hideously  alone;  in  spite  of  Hugh,  in  spite  of  her 
child,  there  was  nothing  that  could  really  bear  her 
company.  Her  soul  was  alone. 

Then,  almost  at  the  first  touch  of  that  cold,  unpierce- 
able  darkness,  she,  dear  gallant  soul  as  she  was,  refused 
to  believe  in  it.  She  sat  up  quickly,  and  as  a  man  scares 
away  by  some  rapid  movement  the  birds  that  are  eat- 
ing his  ripe  fruits  that  he  has  tended  to  maturity,  so  in 
her  mind  she  scattered  the  penetrating  claws  and  digging 
beaks  that  were  preying  on  her  legitimate  harvest. 
Again  and  again  she  flapped  and  clapped  her  hands  at 


274  SHEAVES 

them;  whatever  they  had  spoiled  in  the  past  they 
should  spoil  no  more.  And  those  depredations  had  been 
her  own  fault,  too;  she  had  gone  to  sleep  in  the  sun, 
instead  of  being  active  and  busy.  Who  planned  the 
garden  now?  Hugh.  Who  planned  and  delved  in  the 
garden  of  her  brain?  Nobody.  She  had  been  indolent, 
letting  her  mind  rest  and  doze,  no  wonder,  as  she 
drowsed  and  dreamed,  the  preying  flocks  had  descended, 
for,  of  all  enemies  to  happiness,  laziness  and  indolence 
are  the  most  aggressive.  No  wonder  the  very  door  of 
hell's  darkness  had  swung  ajar,  making  her  believe  for 
the  moment  in  the  loneliness  of  souls. 

And  here,  as  if  in  reward  for  her  own  gallant  rejection 
of  that  execrable  creed,  came  another  beautiful  interrup- 
tion to  the  further  consideration  of  it,  in  the  shape  of 
Peggy,  who  had  just  returned  from  a  mothers'  meeting 
at  St.  Olaf's,  where,  at  the  earnest  entreaty  of  Agnes 
and  Canon  Alington,  she  had  consented  to  give  an  ad- 
dress of  some  kind.  There  was  going  to  be  a  garden- 
party  for  mothers  (who  included  sisters  and  fathers), 
and  in  a  moment  of  mental  weakness  she  had  promised 
to  talk  to  them  on  the  importance,  so  she  had  said  at 
lunch,  of  Things  in  General.  Just  at  this  moment  that 
was  exactly  what  Edith  wanted  to  hear  about,  for  the 
doctrine  of  the  lonely  soul  excludes  things  in  general; 
its  very  creed,  in  fact,  includes  the  negation  of  their 
existence,  and  she  was  eager  to  hear  what  Peggy  had 
found  to  say  on  the  subject.  She  also  wanted  to  confess, 
to  that  beloved  confessor,  to  whom  all  her  life  she  had 
confessed  so  much,  and  also  to  make  spoken  and  audible 
resolutions.  For  to  her,  as  to  everybody  who  lives 
much  in  the  imagination,  the  spoken  word  has  almost 
the  authenticity  of  deed;  to  say  a  thing  meant  that  the 
doing  of  it  was  made  real. 


SHEAVES  275 

"Tea,  or  I  die!"  said  Peggy,  seizing  the  tea-pot. 
"Where  are  the  children?  And  Hugh?"  she  added, 
clearly  as  an  afterthought.  "How  are  you,  Edith? 
You  look  slightly  melodramatic,  sitting  on  a  brocade 
sofa;  very  beautiful,  but  quite  alone  in  the  midst  of 
opulent  surroundings . ' ' 

There  were  abundant  topics  to  choose  from  out  of 
this.  Edith  began  at  the  first  that  struck  her. 

"The  children  and  Hugh  is  unnecessary,"  she  said; 
"our  three  children  are  playing  a  mixture  of  'Lohengrin,' 
'Red  Riding  Hood,'  'Alice  in  Wonderland,'  and  pirates, 
but  Hugh  may  only  hop." 

" The  darlings !"  said  Peggy  enthusiastically.  "Have 
they  really  dressed  up  as  they  intended?  I  want  to 
dress  up,  too.  Oh,  what  fortunate  people  you  and  I 
are! " 

This  was  already  cheering. 

"Of  course  we  are,"  said  Edith.  "But  why  did  you 
say  that  then?  Yes,  the  ones  with  sugar  on  the  top  are 
excellent,"  she  added,  as  Peggy's  fingers  hovered 
indecisively  over  the  tea-table. 

Peggy  took  one,  and  spoke  with  her  mouth  full. 

"Why,  by  contrast,  of  course!"  she  said.  "So 
many  prosperous  people  aren't  fortunate.  Because 
they  haven't  got  a  mind,  which  is  so  important.  Mind 
really  became  the  text  of  'Things  in  General,'  which  was 
an  enormous  success,  and,  oh,  Edith,  there  was  a  short- 
hand writer  there,  who  took  it  all  down,  and  its  going 
to  appear  in  St.  Olaf's  Parish  Magazine.  There's  fame 
for  you!" 

"Tell  me  about  Things  in  General,"  said  Edith. 

"I  fully  intended  to.  There  will  probably  be  paren- 
theses. There's  one  now,  in  fact.  Do  you  know,  I 
never  understood  Canon  Alington's  mind  till  to-day, 


276  SHEAVES 

and  then  it  all  flashed  on  me.  The  explanation  is  that 
he  hasn't  got  one.  He  is  a  mosaic  of  'Things  in  General,' 
golf,  history,  mottoes,  the  apostolic  succession,  the 
Literific,  you,  Hugh,  Ambrose,  me — not  his  wife,  by  the 
way,  she  is  another  him — but  it's  all  mosaic.  It's  bits 
of  things.  It  doesn't  make  up  It,  which  is  'Things  in 
General,'  and  which  is  Life.  With  him  you  can  pick 
pieces  out — they  aren't  fused  together.  Each  bit  is 
alone.  And  if  you  picked  them  all  out,  so  that  there 
was  nothing  left,  he  would  go  'on  buzzing  still,  like — 
a  motor-car  that  throbs  and  won't  start." 

This  was  rather  difficult  to  follow  for  anybody  who 
had  not  heard  the  address  on  "Things  in  General,"  but 
Edith  was  on  the  right  tack. 

"  But  you  called  him  a  'Mosaic  of  Things  in  General,'  " 
she  said.  "Isn't  that  something?" 

"No,  worse  than  nothing,"  said  Peggy.  "You  don't 
see,  nor,  I  think,  did  the  mothers,  but  that  wasn't  their 
fault.  The  whole  point  of  'Things  in  General'  is  that 
each  thing  is  part  of  you,  and  you  could  no  more  pick 
it  out  of  your  life  and  go  on  working  just  the  same  as 
before  than  you  could  pick  Hugh  out  of  your  life.  The 
gospel  of  'Things  in  General'  is  that  they  are  all  fused 
into  you  and  you  can  never  be  alone,  or  cut  off,  or 
isolated.  And  it  is  mind,  ego,  what  you  like  to  call  it, 
that  fuses  them.  You  mustn't  stick  them  about  you 
like  jewels,  or  clothes,  or  wigs — all  you  do  must  be  part 
of  yourself.  It  is  of  no  use  doing  anything  unless  it  is 
you." 

Edith  was  listening  now,  and  attending  like  a  child; 
as  if  it  had  been  a  fairy-story,  which  to  children  is  true, 
she  asked  questions. 

"  But  is  all  you  do  then  part  of  you? " 

"Yes,  if  you  are  always  being  wise,"  said  Peggy, 


SHEAVES  277 

"which  we  unfortunately  are  not.  The  perfectly  wise 
person — good  gracious!  I  am  becoming  like  Dr.  Emil 
Reich — and  the  perfectly  sincere  person,  which  I  almost 
think  are  the  same,  always  expresses  himself  in  his  acts, 
and  what  is  more,  never  does  and  never  thinks  anything 
not  expressive  of  himself.  Of  course  we  aren't  like  that, 
any  of  us.  We  all  make  dreadful  mistakes,  and  do 
things  utterly  uncharacteristic,  and  inexpressive  of 
ourselves.  That  is  another  parenthesis,  by  the  way; 
I  never  could  arrange  my  thoughts." 

"Well,  go  on  with  it,"  said  Edith,  "what  is  one  to  do, 
then?" 

"Why,  my  darling,  who  knows  better  than  you? 
Live  down  your  mistake,  forget  about  it,  and  don't 
blame  either  God  or  other  people  or  yourself  for  it. 
And  if  possible  don't  be  sorry  even  for  very  long,  even 
if  it  has  been  quite  clearly  your  fault,  because  to  continue 
being  sorry  is  vain  repetition  and  waste  of  time,  and 
though  we  have  each  of  us  got  all  the  time  there  is, 
there  happens  to  be  such  a  very  little  of  it.  I  wasn't 
so  metaphysical  to  the  mothers  and  fathers  of  St.  Olaf's, 
by  trie  way.  But  what  it  comes  to  as  regards  'Things  in 
General'  is  that  everybody  ought  to  make  external 
things,  sewing,  gardening,  reading,  friends,  parts  of 
themselves,  so  that  when  they  have  a  little  time  on  their 
hands  they  can  go  and  really  be  themselves,  instead  of 
sitting  down  and  brooding  over  how  much  pleasanter 
it  would  be  if — or  how  much  happier  they  would  be  if — 
or  how  much  anything,  so  long  as  it  only  ends  in  'if.' 
I  hate  'if.'  'If  always  implies  the  regret  that  something 
happened  or  didn't  happen." 

"Oh,  but  surely  'if  may  belong  to  the  future?"  said 
Edith. 

"No,  that  is  a  great  mistake;  at  least  it  is  a  great 


278  SHEAVES 

mistake  ever  to  regard  the  existence  of  'if.'  The 
future  is  really  as  certain  as  the  past;  each  of 
us  has  built  his  future,  and  yet  a  man  or  woman  is 
surprised  when  he  sees  rising  up  exactly  what  he  has 
planned." 

"That  is  rather  a  Delphic  utterance,"  observed  Edith. 

"Yes,  I  feel  Delphic.  There  again  'Things  in  General' 
come  in.  Don't  you  see  the  idea?  I  want  you  to  help 
me  think  it  out.  It  is  only  the  stupid  people,  who 
haven't  really  made  the  things  of  life  their  own  and  part 
of  them,  who  can  be  shocked  or  dismayed,  or  knocked 
down.  You  have  to  fuse  your  pursuits,  your  friends 
into  your  very  soul,  so  that  they  are  part  of  you.  You 
have  to  grow  into  the  world,  yet  not  so  that  it  becomes 
you,  but  you  become  it.  That  is  what  I  mean  by  life 
it  is  the  fusion  of  other  things,  'Things  in  General'  with 
yourself.  Lacking  that  one  is  dead — one's  soul  is 
alone." 

This  was  coming  very  near  the  seat  of  Edith's 
disquietude. 

"Then  what  is  the  trouble  of  the  lonely  soul?"  she 
said.  "It  is  imperfect  sympathy,  isn't  it?" 

There  was  a  certain  change  in  her  voice,  when  she 
asked  this,  that  Peggy  noticed.  It  was  no  longer  the 
voice  of  an  enquirer  into  abstract  problems  external  to 
itself,  it  had  the  ring  of  a  personal  question,  a  personal 
anxiety  about  it.  But  she  did  not  regret  it;  she  had 
meant  to  make  her  confession  to  Peggy,  and  she  had  as 
good  as  told  her  now. 

"Yes,  Peggy,"  she  went  on,  "I've  been  having  a 
little  attack  of  lonely  soul  this  afternoon,  and  perhaps 
you  can  prescribe  for  me." 

Peggy  laughed. 

"You  darling,"  she  said,  "you  and  your  imperfect 


SHEAVES  279 

sympathies.  You  are  so  selfish,  aren't  you,  so  self- 
centred!  Tell  me  all  about  it  now.  How  did  it  come 
on?" 

Edith  hesitated  a  moment,  wondering  whether  it 
was  wiser  to  speak  of  it  even  to  Peggy  or  not.  Yet 
there  was  no  such  excellent  dispeller  of  phantoms  as  her 
sister  and — and  she  was  convinced  it  was  a  phantom. 
To  be  silent  about  it,  too,  would  imply  that  she  was  not 
sure  whether  it  was  real  or  not.  And  she  wanted  to  be 
sure  either  one  way  or  the  other.  She  sat  up  on  her  sofa. 

"It  came  on,"  she  said,  "by  the  sight  of  Hugh  and 
the  children  playing  together.  It  made  me  feel  old  and 
lonely.  And  I  wondered  whether  he  did  not  feel  young 
and  lonely.  Ah,  don't  interrupt,  Peggy,  let  me  get 
through  with  it!  I  think,  honestly,  I  think  that  it  was 
the  thought  of  his  being  lonely  with  me  that  hurt  most, 
so  perhaps  it  wasn't  imperfect  sympathy  that  was  the 
trouble.  Truth  may  have  been  the  trouble.  Now,  you 
know,  Peggy,  you  warned  me,  you  dissuaded  me.  You 
told  me  I  was  too  old  to  marry  him.  And  now,  to-day, 
do  you  think  you  were  right?  If  you  do,  you  will  find 
me" — Edith  paused  a  moment — "you  will  find  me 
more  ready  to  listen  to  you,  now  that  it  is  too  late." 

Tragic  as  the  words  were,  Edith  could  scarcely  help 
smiling,  for  opposite  her  Peggy  was  sitting  with  her 
mouth  wide  open,  in  order  to  begin  to  speak  the  moment 
her  sister  left  off. 

"Pooh!"  she  said  very  loud.  "I  ought  to  have  told 
you  before,  by  the  way,  but  I  couldn't  bring  myself  to. 
Here  to-day  then  I  confess.  As  far  as  I  can  see,  and  as 
far  as  the  trained  eye  of  the  pessimist  can  see,  there  is 
no  cloud  on  all  your  shining  heavens.  Whether  you  or 
Hugh  has  been  the  happiest,  I  can't  say,  but  I  know  of 
nobody  in  the  world  more  happy  than  you  both.  Hugh 


280  SHEAVES 

has  matured,  too,  grown  older,  yet  without  losing  his 
youth,  in  the  most  wonderful  way.  You  did  that. 
You  took  him  in  your  dear  -hands  and  made  a  man  of 
him.  It  didn't  occur  to  me  that  it  could  be  done.  And 
you  have  given  him  a  son.  As  for  your  attack  of  lonely 
soul  starting  with  seeing  him  play  the  fool  with  the 
children,  good  gracious,  what  were  you  thinking  about 
that  you  let  it  start?  Do  you  want  him  not  to?  I 
should  like  a  definite  answer." 

Edith   gave  a   long  sigh. 

"Ah,  you  know  I  love  his  doing  it!"  she  said. 

"Then  lonely  soul  probably  started  not  with  seeing 
that,  but  with  something  at  lunch,"  remarked  Peggy. 

"Oh,  Peggy,  you  are  good  for  me!"  said  Edith. 
"  But  there's  more  lonely  soul  to  come." 

"Well,  I  hope  it's  more  sensible  than  the  last,"  said 
Peggy.  "At  least  I  don't,  but  you  see  what  I  mean. 
Out  with  it." 

"Well,  it's  this.  Since  my  marriage  I  have  cared 
less  about  all  other  'Things  in  General'  except  Hugh. 
I  used  to  spend  delightful  days  all  alone  here,  always 
busy,  busy  with  the  garden,  busy  with  books,  busy  with 
my  writing.  I've  dropped  them,  and  they  used  to  be 
friends,  and  I  feel  ungrateful  because,  good  heavens, 
how  they  helped  me  in  those  other  years,  and  pulled  me 
out  of  the  mire  and  clay.  I  was  so  absorbed  in  my 
writing,  and  now  all  the  creatures  of  my  brain  are  dead. 
And  that  gave  me  a  touch  of  lonely  soul.  'Gambits,' 
for  instance,  used  to  be  part  of  me,  fused  into  me,  and 
now  it's  only  a  bit  of  mosaic,  as  you  said,  and  I'm  sure 
if  anybody  picked  it  out,  I  shouldn't  even  know  it  was 
gone." 

Peggy  did  not  say  "pooh!"  to  this.  Instead,  she 
nodded  her  head  quite  gravely. 


SHEAVES  281 

"Yes,  I  can  quite  understand  how  that  gives  you 
twinges  of  lonely  soul,"  she  said. 

"It  only  has  this  once,"  said  Edith  in  self-defence, 
"and  that  time  it  was  started  by  something  else." 

"That  may  be,  but  I  do  think  there  is  material  for 
lonely  soul  there.  It's  quite  true.  You  have  dropped 
your  friends,  Edith,  all  but  music,  that  is  to  say, 
and  that  is  part  of  Hugh.  How  did  it  happen?  Tell 
me." 

"Oh,  my  dear,  so  naturally.  All  last  winter  down 
here  I  used  to  try  when  Hugh  was  practising  to  go  on 
with  the  new  play.  But  it  all  seemed  remote,  and  it 
is  no  good,  I  think,  working,  creating,  at  any  rate,  unless 
for  the  time  that  is  more  important  to  you  than  any- 
thing else.  And  it  couldn't  be  that  any  longer.  Love 
and  happiness  came  between  my  brain  and  me.  All 
that  winter,  and  all  the  spring  till  we  came  up  to  town, 
I  never  for  a  moment  got  used  to  my  happiness.  It 
never  grew  less  wonderful;  I  never  could  think  of  any- 
thing else.  Oh,  of  course,  I  wrote  a  little,  I  wrote  an 
act  and  a  half,  I  believe,  but  it  wasn't — what  shall  I  call 
it — it  wasn't  intimate  stuff.  It  was  puppets,  mario- 
nettes, instead  of  flesh  and  bones  and  brains.  And  then 
in  London,  after  the  first  tremendous  excitement  of 
Hugh's  singing  was  over,  I  thought  I  would  begin  again, 
and  yet  I  couldn't.  I  was  tired,  I  think.  Then  came 
the  month  of  waiting  here  for  what  July  was  going  to 
bring,  and  now  two  months  more  have  gone,  and  I 
haven't  touched  it.  And  as  for  the  garden,  I've  for- 
gotten, the  names  of  those  things  almost,"  she  said 
pointing  to  a  rose-bed. 

But  Peggy  felt  nearly  as  strongly  on  this  point  as  she 
did  on  the  other. 

"Well,  dear  Edith,  it's  time  you  sat  up  and  began 


282  SHEAVES 

again,"  she  said.  "  Doesn't  your  conscience  tell  you  so? 
It  would  be  a  great  pity  if,  simply  because  you  were 
happily  married,  you  become  a  cow,  you  know,  and 
just  grazed.  I  really  think  you  are  being  rather 
indolent.  It's  odd — it's  unlike  you." 

For  the  moment  it  occurred  to  Edith  to  tell  her  sister 
that  there  was  perhaps  an  explanation  for  that,  as  she 
knew  that  she  had  not  felt  well  for  the  last  month. 
She  had  been  easily  tired  when  she  ought  every  day  to 
have  been  gaining  in  vigour,  and  growing  robust  again. 
But  this  would  lead  to  further  questions,  and  very 
likely  end  in  her  promising  to  see  a  doctor,  a  thing 
which  she  had  not  the  slightest  intention  of  doing,  at 
present,  at  any  rate.  For  she  was  one  of  those  splendid 
and  shining  lights  in  a  hypochondriacal  world,  who, 
naturally  of  serene  health,  refuse  to  admit  illness  till 
they  are  on  the  point  of  dropping.  Besides,  more  im- 
portant than  all,  she  was  going  to  Munich  with  Hugh 
in  a  fortnight's  time  to  hear  a  cycle  of  the  'Ring.'  That 
she  fully  intended  to  do;  if  necessary  she  would  see  a 
doctor  after  that. 

But  the  pause  had  somehow  aroused  Peggy's 
perceptions  to  a  supernormal  acuteness. 

"You  are  well,  dear,  aren't  you?"  she  asked,  as  if 
following  Edith's  unspoken  thought. 

"Do  I  look  ill?"  said  Edith  in,  a  voice  of  earnest 
enquiry. 

"No,  I  can't  say  you  do.  So  do  take  up  your  other 
'Things  in  General'  again.  Hugh  is  the  only  thing  in 
particular,which  we  all  ought  to  have." 

"Yes,  but  what  is  to  be  done  if  one's  work  seems 
dull?"  asked  Edith.  "One  can't  go  on  hammering 
at  a  thing  if  it  seems  dull.  At  least,  the  only  effect 
would  be  to  produce  something  dull.  I  read  through 


SHEAVES  283 

what  I  had  written  the  other  day.  It  seemed  lifeless 
to  me.  I  don't  really  care  what  happens  to  the  people." 

She  paused  a  moment  again. 

"Yes,  and  here  we  come  again  to  imperfect  sym- 
pathies," she  said.  "It  seems  to  me  that  perhaps  after 
all  it  was  sorrow  and  bitterness,  and  the  need  of  fighting 
them,  that  awoke  my  perceptions,  and  let  me  see  and 
say  what  after  all  did  go  home  to  people.  Was  it  that, 
do  you  think?  Was  that  God's  plan?  Is  happiness 
such  as  afterward  was  mine,  so  embracing  and  divine 
a  gift  that  it  is  sufficient  in  itself,  so  that  our  other 
faculties  are  dulled  and  rendered  sleepy?  That  would 
be  a  bitter  choice  to  be  obliged  to  make,  to  be  happy 
for  one's  own  sake,  or  to  feel  the  sting  of  misery,  in  order 
that  one  might  comprehend  the  sorrow  of  the  world. 
Which  would  you  choose?  I  know  which  I  should.  I 
should  always  choose  to  be  happy,  I  am  afraid.  Yet 
perhaps  the  other  lot  is  the  nobler.  Is  that  a  wee  bit 
Ambrosian?" 

Peggy  laughed,  but  from  the  lips  only.  It  was  rather 
a  disquieting  question. 

"Oh,  I  can't  believe  that!"  she  said  quickly.  "I 
can't  believe  that  God  gives  msery  to  quicken  us,  and 
does  not  give  happiness  to  do  the  same.  He  must 
fulfil  Himself  through  joy  surely.  He  must  mean  us 
to  be  happy,  or  else  the  world  becomes  a  very  tragic 
thing." 

"And   supposing   it   is?"  asked    Edith. 

"Ah,  you  are  supposing  the  impossible!"  said  Peggy 
quickly.  "The  world  isn't  tragic,  not  in  the  main  at 
any  rate.  We've  got  to  go  on  from  strength  to  strength, 
not  from  misery  to  misery.  You  of  all  people  in  the 
world  have  proved  that.  You  came  out  of  hell  into  the 
sunlight.  Don't  tell  me  that  wasn't  intended.  Of 


284  SHEAVES 

course  it  was.  And  for  the  rest  of  your  difficulty,  I 
think  you  have  been  rather  indolent,  and  it  has  been 
your  own  fault.  Use  your  happiness  as  you  used  your 
misery.  I  hate  letting  things  go  to  waste.  Why,  I 
know  we  agree  about  that.  You  have  this  gift,  you 
have  shown  it.  Really,  you  are  behaving  rather  in  the 
way  Hugh  behaved  about  his  singing.  You  are  well 
again,  dear,  you  have  had  this  huge  stimulus  of  bearing 
a  son  to  your  husband.  I  really  do  think  that  it's  time 
for  you  to  begin  again." 

"  But  I'm  going  to  Munich  almost  at  once,"  said  Edith. 

"Yes,  in  a  fortnight.  Get  through  something  first. 
You  have  no  idea  how  much  more  you  will  enjoy  it  if 
you  have  rather  tired  yourself  first.  I  suggest  also  that 
you  read  us  your  play  as  far  as  it  has  gone,  after  dinner 
to-night.  And  if  we  think  it  dull,  why,  we  will  tell  you 
so,  and,  if  you  trust  our  judgment,  you  can  begin  it  all 
over  again.  What  nice  plans  I  make  for  you." 

"I  have  read  it  to  Hugh,"  said  Edith  in  a  moment, 
"and — well,  Hugh  has  got  a  great  deal  of  perception, 
you  know — his  comment  was  that  it  wasn't  really  by 
Andrew  Robb  at  all.  That  seems  to  me  to  be  the  case. 
You  see,  Andrew  Robb  was  a  lonely  old  gentleman, 
who  was  forever  fighting  against  the  bitterness  within 
himself,  and  trying  to  be  reasonable  and  kind  in  spite 
of  it  all.  And  I  expect  that  struggling  to  be  kind  makes 
one  sympathise  with  the  struggles  I  am  too  sleek 
now,  too  contented." 

"Ah,  I  am  sorry!"  said  Peggy.  "Andrew  Robb  was 
such  a  dear.  Do  you  think  he  is  really  dead? " 

Edith  got  up  with  a  little  shudder  of  goose-flesh. 

"One  can  never  tell,"  she  said.  "People  like  him 
often  have  little  private  resurrections.  But  I  hope  he 
is  dead  if,  in  order  that  he  should  dictate  me  anotTier 


SHEAVES  285 

play,  I  should  have  to  go  through  that  sort  of  thing 
again.  For  he  lived  just  a  little  too  near  Hell." 

The  shudder  of  goose-flesh  repeated  itself,  and  she 
drew  a  cloak  about  her  shoulders.  Sunset  had  ceased 
to  flare  in  the  sky,  and  with  the  withdrawal  of  its  lights 
it  had  grown  a  little  chilly. 

"Come,  Peggy,"  she  said,  "let  us  walk  a  little.  I  am 
very  grateful  to  you.  You  have  stirred  me  up,  and  I 
expect  I  was  getting  indolent.  We'll  see  if  I  can't  raise 
the  ghost  of  Andrew  Robb,  anyhow.  I  want  to  write 
again,  and  Hugh  wants  me  to.  He  says  it  is  absurd 
that  he  should  go  toiling  away  at  his  singing  if  I 
don't  toil.  You  see,  my  darling  boy  has  a  very  high 
opinion  of  Andrew  Robb.  He  wants  to  see  more  of 
him.  But  he  didn't  see  him  in  the  acts  of  the  new 
play  that  I  read.  But  I  will  make  an  effort.  It  is 
time  I  did.  I  suppose  I  have  got  stupefied  with 
happiness." 

They  left  the  lawn  and  went  up  the  broad  gravel  walk 
by  the  herbaceous  bed,  at  the  far  end  of  which  was  the 
doorway  in  the  box-hedge  into  the  kitchen  garden.  It 
still  flamed  in  this  wonderful  warm  September,  its  In- 
dian summer  was  still  coaxing  it  into  fresh  flower,  bidding 
it  forget  the  frosts  that  were  soon  coming.  And  the 
sight  of  it  and  what  it  suggested  perhaps  made  the  dead 
Andrew  Robb  to  stir  in  his  tomb  of  roses  and  love. 

"Isn't  it  Dumas  who  says  that  if  you  hesitate  in  an 
artistic  choice,  between  one  course  and  another,  that 
you  only  hesitate  because  neither  are  really  good?" 
asked  Edith.  "That  is  my  trouble  over  the  play.  I 
can't  decide.  One  development  seems  reasonable,  and 
then  another  becomes  just  as  reasonable.  Oh,  Peggy 
is  it  pain  that  I  need  again?  I  don't  want  to  be  quick- 
ened any  more.  I  want  to  have  a  few  more  years  like 


286  SHEAVES 

the  year  I  have  just  had.  My  God,  how  content  I  should 
be  with  that." 

Peggy  entirely  disapproved  of  this  attitude. 

"Oh,  I  hate  you  talking  about  a  few  more  years!" 
she  said.  "Darling,  don't  be  so  graveyard.  Why,  of 
course,  we've  all  got  to  die,  but,  for  Heaven's  sake, 
don't  let  us  contemplate  that  depressing  fact.  When 
I,  which  is  rare  with  me,  even  begin  to  think  about  my 
latter  end,  I  always  get  up  and  do  something.  It  doesn't 
matter  what  you  do.  Go  and  do  it,  before  you  die. 
And  I  supplement  that  by  a  small  dose  of  some  kind, 
because  though  death  is  real,  the  thought  of  it  is  almost 
invariably  liver.  Consider  what  a  great  girl  you  are, 
as  somebody  said  in  your  divine  'Alice  in  Wonderland,' 
only  don't  cry.  And  don't  resuscitate  that  dear  Andrew. 
He  is  dead,  and  peace  be  with  him.  But  resuscitate 
Mrs.  Grainger." 

Edith  turned  her  an  enquiring  face. 

"  Is  it  that  which  is  the  matter  with  me? "  she  asked. 

"There  is  nothing  the  matter  with  you,"  cried  Peggy. 
"  But  get  on,  get  on,  get  on!  " 

A  wild  shriek  arose  and  tore  the  quiet  of  the  evening 
into  shreds. 

"No,  the  other  way,  Jim,"  screamed  Daisy,  "and 
you'll  catch  him  at  the  corner! " 

Another  yell  took  it  up. 

"Oh,  I  saw  you  walk,"  shrieked  Jim,  "and  you  might 
only  hop!" 

A  tall  figure  in  silver  armour  bounded  across  the  lawn 
and  fell  at  Edith's  feet. 

"Home,"  he  said,  "Aunt  Edith  was  home,  and  she 
happens  to  have  moved.  O  Lord,  Edith,  what  a 
Godsend  you  are! " 

Red  Riding  Hood  came  flying  up  the  path,  and  the 


SHEAVES  287 

remnant  of  the  gentleman  in  paper  closed  in  from  the 
other  side  of  the  lawn. 

"But  Aunt  Edith's  moved!"  shrieked  Daisy.  "We. 
should  have  caught  you  long  before  you  got  to  the  trees." 

"There  was  no  rule!"  panted  Hugh.  "Aunt  Edith 
was  home,  wasn't  she?" 

'Peggy  was  inflamed  at  this. 

"Yes,  Hugh  is  home,"  she  said,  "but  do  not  let  us 
have  one  more  Tom  Tiddler's  Ground.  Aunt  Edith  is 
still  one  home,  and  the  tea-table  is  the  other." 

Hugh  still  lay  on  the  steep  grass  bank  up  from  the 
lawn  to  the  path  by  the  flower-bed,  touching  Edith's 
shoe. 

"Very  well,  I've  won  then,"  he  said,  "if  Aunt  Edith 
is  home." 

Then  the  flush  and  effervescent  tide  of  his  youth 
came  over  Edith.  She  wanted  to  play,  too,  to  be  a 
child  again,  like  Peggy  with  all  these  children. 

"But  I  am  not  going  to  be  'home'  in  Tom  Tiddler's 
Ground,"  she  said.  "  I'm  going  to  play,  too.  You  and 
I,  Hughie,  on  one  side,  and  Peggy  and  Daisy  on  the 
other,  and  Jim  shall  be  Tiddler." 

"Hurrah,  I'm  Tiddler!"  shouted  Jim. 

The  sides  arranged  themselves,  and  in  a  moment  the 
chant  began: 

Here  we  come  picking  up  silver  and  gold, 
Silver  and  gold,  silver  and  gold, 
Here  we  come  picking  up  silver  and  gold, 
All  on  Tom  Tiddler's  ground. 

For  a  little  while  caution  was  shown  on  both  sides, 
while  Jim  darted  to  left  and  right,  trying  to  catch  the 
cautious  figures  that  did  not  venture  far  out.  Then 
Edith  started  to  run  in  earnest,  and  Jim  hew  after  her. 


288  SHEAVES 

She  ran  up  the  bank  trying  to  dodge  him,  and  just  as 
she  felt  him  touch  her  she  felt  a  sudden  warm,  choking 
sensation  in  her  throat  that  made  her  cough. 

"Hurrah!"  screamed  Jim.  "I  touched  you,  Aunt 
Edith!" 

"Yes,  Jim,  I'm  caught,"  she  said. 

Then  she  put  up  her  handkerchief  to  her  mouth, 
and  looked  at  it  as  she  withdrew  it  again.  There  was 
a  little  stain  on  it,  very  bright  red. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

THERE  was  a  big-ribbed  looking-glass  outside  the 
window  of  the  doctor's  consulting-room,  that 
tilted  in  the  warm,  reddish  sunlight  of  the  September 
morning,  while  through  the  open  sash  there  stole  in  the 
aromatic  smell  of  fresh-laid  asphalt.  There  was  not 
much  traffic  going  on,  only  occasionally  the  clip-clop  of 
a  horse's  hoofs  sounded  staccato  on  the  wooden  pave- 
ment of  Harley  Street,  and  Edith  could  hear  without 
effort  all  that  Sir  Thomas  was  saying. 

He  hardly  led  up  to  it,  for  she  had  come  there  that 
morning  simply  to  know  what  the  result  of  his  exam- 
ination had  been,  and  he  merely  asked  her  a  question 
or  two  as  to  her  health  since  the  birth  of  the  baby.  And 
then,  without  preparing  her,  for  he  knew  that  there  is 
no  breaking  such  news,  he  told  her  quite  quietly,  in  a 
word  or  two. 

Edith  had  been  sitting  opposite  the  window,  looking 
at  him  with  her  pleasant,  direct  gaze,  as  if  giving  her 
very  courteous  attention  to  a  story  that  did  not  par- 
ticularly entertain  her,  but  in  which  she  was  bound,  for 
politeness'  sake,  to  appear  interested.  But  when  he 
finished  she  smiled  at  him  as  if  his  tale  had  had  some 
slightly  humorous  conclusion.  She  did  not  feel  in  the 
least  stunned,  nor  had  she  any  consciousness  of  having 
received  a  shock.  Only  for  a  moment  the  little  trivial 
circumstances  of  the  hour  and  the  place  grew  more  vivid; 
she  noticed  that  the  clock  on  the  chimney-piece  had 
stopped,  odd  in  the  consulting-room  of  a  great  doctor; 
that  Sir  Thomas  had  a  scar  running  across  the  back  of 

289 


29o  SHEAVES 

his  left  hand;  that  one  of  her  own  gloves  had  fallen  on 
to  the  floor.  Then  this  attention  to  trivialities  sub- 
sided again,  and  she  felt  perfectly  normal,  perfectly 
herself. 

"Thank  you  for  telling  me  so  kindly  and  con- 
siderately," she  said.  "You  see  how  successful  you  have 
been,  how  little  it  has  upset  me?  It  is  then — it  is  very 
serious." 

"Yes." 

Again  she  smiled  at  him. 

"  I  quite  understand,"  she  said. 

Sir  Thomas  got  up  and  held  out  his  hand  to  her. 

"Ah,  my  dear  lady,"  he  said,  "you  are  a  brave  woman. 
Meet  your — your  illness  with  the  same  bravery  day  by 
day.  Those  are  the  patients,  people  like  you,  who  get 
well,  and  get  well  quickly." 

"What  are  my  chances?"  she  asked  briskly. 

"They  are  excellent.  Thanks  to  that  little  haemor- 
rhage you  had  last  week,  and  thanks  to  your  common 
sense  in  consulting  me  about  it  without  losing  time,  we 
have  detected  the  disease  in  an  early  stage.  All  depends 
now — humanly  speaking — on  yourself,  on  your  obedi- 
ence to  what  we  tell  you  to  do,  and  the  scrupulous 
rigour  with  which  you  carry  out  your  treatment." 

That  allusion  to  treatment,  to  obedience  to  orders, 
brought  Edith  closer,  more  immediately  in  contact,  as 
it  were,  with  the  news. 

"You  have  no  doubt  whatever  that  I  have  consump- 
tion?" she  asked  quickly. 

"I  am  afraid  none.  Of  course  the  haemorrhage,  as 
I  told  you  before,  might  have  come  from  the  throat,  but 
the  examination  I  have  made  since  I  saw  you  last  proves 
the  presence  of  what  you  call  the  little  insects." 

"And  what  am  I  to  do?"  she  asked. 


SHEAVES  291 

"Go  out  to  Davos  as  soon  as  ever  you  can.  I  would 
have  you  leave  by  this  afternoon's  train,  if  it  was  pos- 
sible. And  there  you  will  live  out  of  doors  day  and 
night  as  far  as  possible.  Until  you  check  the  disease 
it  gains  on  you.  As  I  told  you,  you  have  an  excellent 
chance,  and  you  mustn't  imperil  it  by  delay." 

Edith  considered  this  for  a  moment. 

"I  will  be  at  Davos  in  a  fortnight  from  to-day,"  she 
said.  "That  is  reasonable,  is  it  not?" 

"  Yes,  if  you  will  be  an  outdoor  invalid  in  the  interval," 
he  said. 

Edith  was  silent,  wondering  at  herself  for  the  perfect 
calmness  which  she  felt.  At  first  she  thought  that  the 
suddenness  of  the  news  might  have  partly  stunned  her, 
but  the  minutes  were  passing,  and  still  she  had  no  con- 
sciousness of  having  received  a  shock.  She  understood, 
too,  the  gravity  of  the  sentence  which  had  been  pro- 
nounced; it  was  not  that  her  mind  refused  to  grasp  it. 
Now  she  almost  laughed. 

"I  feel  I  ought  to  apologise  for  being  so  unagitated," 
she  said,  "but  I  don't  feel  the  least  inclined  to  be  agitated. 
Perhaps  I  have  been  fearing  this  all  these  last  days,  and 
anyhow  the  fear  is  removed,  now  I  know.  Now  about 
my  plans;  I  will  tell  you." 

Edith  hesitated  again.  She  had  known  Sir  Thomas 
from  her  childhood;  he  had  done  all  that  was  possible 
for  her  late  husband;  he  had  brought  her  child  into  the 
world.  She  determined  to  ask  him  several  things  which 
concerned  her,  so  it  seemed,  more  intimately  than  her 
illness. 

"Can  you  give  me  a  quarter  of  an  hour  now?"  she 
asked.  "There  are  several  questions  I  want  to  put  to 
you.  How  dazzling  this  reflected  sun  is.  Ah,  I  can  sit 
out  of  the  glare  there!  " 


292  SHEAVES 

She  moved  her  place  so  that  she  sat  with  her  back  to 
the  light  and  covered  her  eyes  with  her  hands. 

"First,  then,  about  my  plans,"  she  said.  "I  will 
be  at  Davos  in  a  fortnight,  but  I  won't  promise  to  be  an 
invalid  in  the  interval.  I  mean  to  go  with  my  husband 
to  Munich  for  ten  days  and  hear  Wagner  opera.  We 
had  planned  it  all,  you  see,  and  we  shall  start  in  two 
days.  From  there  I  will  go  to  Davos." 

"Ah,  I  protest  against  that!"  said  Sir  Thomas.  "It 
means  fatigue,  excitement,  bad  air,  the  three  things 
you  must  avoid.  I  will  speak  to  Mr.  Grainger  myself." 

"No,  indeed,  you  must  not,"  said  she.  "It  must  be 
I  who  tell  him.  Now,  I  don't  mean  to  tell  him  until  after 
we  have  seen  the  opera  together.  Oh,  Sir  Thomas,  I 
can't.  I  simply  can't  start  my  invalid  life  without 
one  more  treat,  as  the  children  say,  without  one  more 
week  of  Indian  summer.  After  that,  I  promise  to  tell 
him,  and  I  promise  to  be  the  most  willing  and  obedient 
of  patients.  It  does  mean  such  a  lot  to  me!  I  can't 
tell  you  how  much.  I  shall  fret  and  worry  over  not 
having  gone  there  with  him  if  I  don't  go.  But  I  intend 
to.  So  please  tell  me  how  to  minimise  any  harm  it 
may  do  me." 

There  was  no  doubt  she  was  in  earnest  over  this ;  that 
week  at  Munich  with  Hugh,  even  now  within  half  an 
hour  of  the  news  she  had  heard,  seemed  to  her  to  matter 
more  than  anything  else.  A  far  less  acute  man  than 
Sir  Thomas  could  have  seen  that. 

"Of  course,  if  you  intend  to  fret  over  not  having 
gone — "  he  began. 

"  I  don't  intend  to;  I  shan't  be  able  to  avoid  it,  and, 
indeed,  I  will  be  so  good  afterwards  and  so  determined 
to  get  well.  But  just  a  little  more  happiness  first! " 

Yes;    the  thought  of  missing  Munich  clearly  touched 


SHEAVES  293 

her  more  intimately  than  the  knowledge  that  this  deadly 
disease  had  built  nests  in  her.  It  was  the  child's  cry 
for  "five  minutes  more"  before  bedtime,  five  minutes 
of  romance,  of  play.  Munich  and  its  music,  much  as 
she  loved  it,  was,  in  itself,  nothing  to  her;  what  she 
could  not  bear  to  miss  was  this  extra  week  of  holiday, 
this  one  more  week  of  Hugh's  unsuspecting,  joyful 
companionship.  However  well  he  bore  this  news  when 
he  knew,  he  would  still  be  bearing  it.  Until  she  was  well 
again,  if  she  was  going  to  get  well,  his  sky  would  always 
be  overcast;  he  would  be  anxious,  solicitous,  with  fear 
always  in  the  back  of  his  mind,  however  well  he  hid  it, 
and  she  felt  she  must  be  partner  for  just  a  little  while 
more  of  his  riotous  boyish  happiness,  which  was  so 
"Hugh"  to  her.  Some  part  of  this,  no  doubt,  Sir 
Thomas  guessed;  he  knew  at  any  rate  that  she  had  set 
her  mind  on  another  week  of  life.  He  knew,  too,  from 
his  previous  knowledge  of  her,  that  she  was  one  of  those 
whose  body  is  in  fine  obedience  to  their  will,  and  whose 
will  is  set  on  health  and  the  joy  of  living. 

"But  will  you  be  sensible  during  that  week  at  Mun- 
ich?" he  asked.  "Will  you  rest  when  you  are  tired, 
and  stop  at  home  and  not  go  to  the  opera  if  you  feel  it 
is  too  much  for  you? " 

Edith  took  her  hands  away  from  her  eyes  with  a 
superb  wide  gesture.  Her  need  was  imperative;  she 
did  not  care  what  price  was  paid  for  it. 

"  No,  I  won't  promise  to  be  in  the  least  sensible  during 
that  week,"  she  said.  "I  might  just  as  well  not  go  to 
Munich  at  all,  as  be  sensible.  I  mean  to  have  a  splendid 
time  just  for  one  week  more,  to  watch  Hugh's  complete 
happiness  just  for  that  week,  and  know  that  it  is  mine. 
And  if  I  die  a  month  sooner  in  consequence,  I  will  say 
'Thank  God  for  Munich,'  with  my  latest  breath,  After 


294  SHEAVES 

that  week  I  will  tell  Hugh  everything;  I  will  be  very 
good,  very  obedient,  and,  oh,  how  cheerful!  But  I  will 
have  this  week  as  we  planned  it." 

At  heart  Sir  Thomas  exulted  in  the  obstinacy  of  his 
patient.  He  loved  those  who  loved  the  joys  of  living, 
and  made  light  of  their  infirmities  even  at  the  risk  of 
increasing  them.  But  he  felt  professionally  bound  to 
apply  the  brake  here. 

"But,  my  dear  lady,  how  can  you  have  a  splendid 
time — which  with  all  my  heart  I  desire  for  you — if  you 
are  feeling  very  tired  and  languid?  You  can't — your 
body  must  react  on  your  mind.  Also  you  will  risk 
having  another  haemorrhage;  you  will  risk,  for  the  sake 
of  a  week,  doing  yourself  a  damage  that  it  may  take  six 
months  to  repair." 

Edith  leaned  forward  in  her  chair,  brilliant,  radiant, 
her  brave  soul  shining  like  a  beacon  in  her  tired  eyes. 

"You  know  all  about  me,"  she  said;  "I  have  suffered 
a  good  deal  of  mental  pain  in  my  life,  and  I  think  that 
that  has  taught  me  to  despise  physical  discomfort.  Any- 
how, I  do.  I  don't  care  how  tired  I  get  for  just  this  week, 
and  I  defy  all  the  little  insects  in  the  world  to  make  me 
enjoy  myself  less.  So  that  is  settled.  And  now  I  have 
one  or  two  more  questions,  and  then,  if  you  please,  we 
will  call  my  sister  in,  and  tell  her." 

She  leaned  back  again,  and  again  covered  her  eyes 
with  her  hands.  She  was  getting  into  more  intimate 
lands  now,  and  was  silent  a  moment. 

"Will  this  age  me  much?"  she  asked.  "I  mean,  if 
I  get  well,  shall  I  be  an  old  woman?  I  am,  as  you  know, 
much  older  than  my  husband,  and  if  this  will  further 

increase  the  difference  in  our  ages,  it  might  be  better " 

Sir  Thomas  cut  this  short  with  some  decision. 

"It  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  he  said.     "If  you 


SHEAVES  295 

do  as  you  are  told,  the  very  cure  itself,  which  heals  your 
disease,  will  rest  you  in  other  ways.  When  you  are 
well  again,  you  will  be  better  in  general  health  and 
younger  than  you  are  now.  At  least,  I  have  often 
seen  that  happen.  Only  you  must  fight  the  little 
insects  to  the  death.  And  you  have  a  good  chance  of 
doing  so." 

Again  the  hands  came  away  from  her  eyes,  and  the 
shadow  of  the  fear  that  had  been  there  before  was 
past  away. 

"Thank  you,  my  dear  friend,"  she  said.  "Now, 
is  Davos  a  dreadful  place?  Can  a  man  be  there 
much  without  being  bored  to  death?  And  what 
is  the  shortest  time  in  which  you  think  I  could  get 
well?" 

"I  have  known  cures  of  cases  far  worse  than  yours 
being  complete  in  a  year,  as  far  as  the  actual  presence 
of  disease  goes.  But  that  means  a  year  of  complete 
invalid  life,  passed  at  Davos,  or  perhaps  at  some  higher 
place  just  for  the  summer  months,  without  ever  coming 
down  into  lower  air." 

"You  mean  I  mustn't  come  to  England  for  a  year?" 
asked  Edith. 

"Not  if  you  want  to  give  yourself  the  best  chance. 
Davos  is  delightful  in  the  winter  for  any  man  who  cares 
about  outdoor  sports,  but  I  should  say  very  dull  when 
the  ice  goes." 

"And  what  is  the  risk  of  infection  to  others?  Would 
it  be  better,  I  mean,  for  my  husband,  when  he  is  at  Davos 
to  live  in  a  hotel.  I  suppose  I  shall  take  a  house,  shall 
I  not?" 

"The  risk  would  be  unappreciable." 

"Or  for  my  sister,  or  her  children,  or  my  baby?" 

"There  would  be  no  risk  if  you  are  sensible  about  it. 


296  SHEAVES 

You  would  not,  of  course,  well,  kiss  anybody.  And 
there  are  other  precautions  as  well,  which  of  course 
you  will  observe." 

Edith  nodded  at  him. 

"Yes,  I  will  be  very  sensible,"  she  said.  "And  now 
please  call  Peggy  in,  and  I  will  tell  her." 

"I  will  just  examine  your  heart  first,"  he  said.  "It 
will  not  take  more  than  a  minute  or  two.  I  remember 
there  was  a  little  weakness." 

He  was  satisfied,  however,  with  this. 

"No,  that  is  sound  enough,"  he  said.  "It  is  a  little 
weak  in  its  action,  but  there  is  nothing  wrong.  But, 
my  dear  lady,  you  have  to  concentrate  all  your  forces 
to  fight  this  new  enemy.  You  must,  you  absolutely 
must  avoid  fatigue  and  worry." 

But  she  cut  him  short. 

"Ah  then,  I  must  certainly  go  to  Munich,"  she  said. 
"  It  will  save  me  no  end  of  worry.  Now  let  us  have 
Peggy  in;  I  want  to  tell  her  at  once." 

Peggy  was  but  next  door,  and  the  summoning  of  her 
in  took  no  longer  than  the  opening  of  it.  At  present  all 
she  knew  was  that  Edith  wanted  to  get  a  clean  bill  of 
health  before  starting  for  Munich.  She  had  confessed 
to  fatigue,  but  had  breathed  to  her  sister  no  suspicion 
of  her  fear,  and  their  coming  up  to  town  together  was  a 
plan  that  had  been  formed  several  weeks  before.  And 
though  the  length  of  time  that  she  had  been  kept  in  the 
waiting-room,  while  Edith  saw  Sir  Thomas  alone,  had 
a  little  disquieted  her,  yet  the  serenity  of  Edith's 
face  when  she  was  admitted  to  his  consulting-room, 
immensely  reassured  her.  Then  Sir  Thomas  closed  the 
door  behind  her,  and  she  sat  down  opposite  her  sister. 
Edith  spoke: 

"Dear  Peggy,"  she  said,  "I  suppose  I  ought  to  break 


SHEAVES  297 

it  to  you,  but  it's  so  ridiculous  to  break  things.  I've 
got  consumption.  Isn't  it  dreadful?" 

Peggy  looked  at  her  blankly,  and  then  this  most 
unorthodox  patient  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  burst 
into  shouts  of  laughter.  She  simply  could  not  help  it, 
the  blankness  of  Peggy's  face  was  so  excruciatingly 
funny.  Then  the  infection  of  the  laughter  caught  her 
sister  also,  and  they  just  sat  and  laughed.  Once  Peggy 
tried  to  compose  her  face,  and  said,  "Oh,  Edith!"  in  a 
trembling  voice,  but  that  set  Edith  off  again  till  the 
tears  streamed. 

"Oh,  I'm  better!"  she  said  at  length.  "But  how 
funny  it  was.  I  should  never  be  good  at  breaking 
things  to  people,  should  I,  Sir  Thomas?  O  Peggy,  what 
a  pity  Hugh  wasn't  here,  too!  He  loves  laughing.  Yes, 
and  we're  going  to  Munich  just  as  we  planned,  and 
after  that  I  go  to  Davos  for  a  whole  year.  Then,  if  I 
am  good,  perhaps  I  shall  be  quite  well  again,  and  younger 
and  better  than  I  am  now.  That  will  be  an  advantage." 

"Oh,  my  darling,"  said  Peggy.  "I  am  so — so — there 
are  no  words." 

"No,  it  was  much  better  to  laugh.  Fancy  there 
being  a  humorous  side  to  consumption.  What  a  good 
thing!  And  since  Sir  Thomas  has  allowed  me  to  go  to 
Munich,  I  shall  not  tell  Hughie  till  afterward.  And 
from  there  I  go  straight  to  Davos,  and  behave  too  beau- 
tifully. That  is  a  fair  statement  of  our  interview,  is  it 
not,  Sir  Thomas?  Now,  Peggy .  we  must  go  home 
to  lunch.  I  am  so  hungry." 

But  the  doctor  could  not  .quite  let  this  pass. 

"  I've  been  doing  my  utmost  to  persuade  Mrs.  Grainger 
not  to  go  to  Munich,"  he  said.  "Will  she  listen  to 
you?" 

"  Not  for  a  single  instant,"  said  Edith. 


298  SHEAVES 

"  My  dear  lady,  be  serious  for  a  moment." 

Edith  rose. 

"Oh,  don't  make  me  laugh  again,"  she  said.  "Good- 
bye, Sir  Thomas,  you  are  the  kindest  man  in  the  world. 
Please  come  and  see  me  to-morrow,  and  tell  me  whom 
I  shall  be  under,  and  all  about  it.  I  must  have  a  house 
there.  I  hate  hotels.  Perhaps  we  had  better  go  to  a 
hotel  first,  until  we  can  get  something  to  suit  us.  And 
you  and  the  children,  Peggy,  are  coming  out  to  stay 
with  me,  but  I  mustn't  kiss  you.  Sir  Thomas,  since 
I  am  to  be  idle  by  your  orders,  you  will  probably  receive 
some  time  next  year  a  small  book  with  the  compliments 
of  the  author,  called  'Our  Life  in  High  Altitudes.'  ' 

They  got  into  the  brougham  that  was  waiting  and 
drove  off.  Then  in  spite  of  orders  Peggy  turned  to 
her  sister  and  kissed  her. 

"You  blessed  darling,"  she  said.  "But,  oh,  Edith, 
don't  be  so  splendid  about  it,  or  you  will  break  my 
heart." 

Edith  still  had  that  radiant  look  with  which  she  had 
heard  her  sentence. 

"Splendid?"  she  said.  "I'm  not  splendid.  I  am 
behaving  exactly  as  I  feel  inclined.  Is  it  odd,  do  you 
think?  I  don't.  Besides,  what  would  be  the  use  of 
curling  up  and  snivelling?  I'm  not  made  like  that." 

"No,  you  dear,"  said  Peggy,  half-sobbing,  "that's 
just  it.  That's  just  the  splendidness  that  makes  me  cry." 

Edith  took  her  sister's  hand. 

"Ah,  don't  Peggy!"  she  said.  "Don't  let  us  give 
way  for  a  single  second  if  we  can  help.  Don't  let  us 
ever  think  about  giving  way,  or  else  that  will  become 
natural.  I  won't.  I  won't!  I  will  not!"  she  said 
with  great  emphasis. 

There  was  silence  a  moment,  then  Edith  spoke  again. 


SHEAVES  299 

"Now  I  shall  sit  out  on  my  balcony  all  afternoon," 
she  said,  "and  hold  this  all  in  front  of  me,  till  I  am  quite 
certain  that  I  fully  realise  it.  And  then,  Peggy,  this 
evening  I  will  talk  it  over  with  you  just  once,  and  from 
then  until — until  the  time  that  I  am  well  again,  we  will 
never  allude  to  it  any  more." 

"Yes,  dear,"  said  she.  * 

Then  Edith's  face  broadened  into  a  great  smile  again. 

"And,  oh,  what  a  beautiful  laugh  we  had,"  she  said. 
"  I  can  truly  say  in  the  future,  if  I  am  very  much  amused 
about  something,  '  I  haven't  laughed  so  much  since  they 
told  me  I  had  consumption.'  ' 

"Don't,  don't!"  said  Peggy. 

Peggy,  even  in  September,  was  full  of  business.  There 
was  a  factory  to  be  visited,  a  school  of  work  to  be 
inspected,  and  a  "home"  where  surprise-descents  were 
distinctly  good  for  the  matron,  who  was  not  wholly 
satisfactory,  and  it  was  not  till  after  six  that  she  got  back 
to  Rye  House.  But  busy  though  she  had  been,  it  had 
required  all  her  force  and  determination  to  get  through 
her  errands,  for  her  mind  kept  flying  back  like  a 
released  spring  to  Edith,  whom  she  had  left  sitting 
out  in  the  warm  autumn  sunshine,  facing  what  she  had 
been  told,  adjusting,  as  she  would  have  to  do,  her  mind 
and  her  whole  self  to  new  conditions.  When  Peggy  got 
back,  they  were  to  have  their  talk,  just  the  one  talk. 

The  hours  had  passed  quickly  for  Edith,  and  if  anyone 
had  watched  her,  not  knowing  what  occupied  her  mind 
so  intensely,  he  would  have  said  that  here  was  a  woman 
with  a  true  gift  of  lotus-eating,  so  quietly  she  sat,  so 
content  to  do  nothing  whatever.  Once  or  twice  only 
in  those  hours  did  anything  of  a  disquieting  nature  seen 
to  cross  her  mind,  and  even  then  a  couple  of  sharp- 
drawn  breaths,  or  a  sudden  look  as  of  pain  or  fright  in 


300  SHEAVES 

her  eyes,  soon  past,  was  all  the  surface  sign  of  it.  And 
at  the  end,  when  she  heard  Peggy's  motor  draw  up  at 
the  door,  it  was  with  the  same  patient  and  smiling 
content,  which  for  the  most  of  the  afternoon  had  lain 
like  sunlight  on  her  face,  that  she  went  downstairs. 

The  two  had  tea  together  in  Peggy's  sitting-room, 
and  theft  Edith  took  her  favourite  chair  and  spoke. 
Again  there  was  no  transition  possible  from  the  topics 
of  the  day  which  had  occupied  them  at  tea,  and  she 
began  without  preamble. 

"Yes,  dear,  I  have  thought  it  all  out,"  she  said,  "and 
I  know  at  this  moment  just  how  I  feel  about  it,  and  what 
I  hope  I  shall  continue  to  feel.  Peggy,  it  is  so  simple; 
big  things  always  are,  I  think.  Isn't  that  a  blessing? 
Now  I  shall  begin  at  the  beginning,  not  like  Hugh's 
stories,  which  begin  in  the  middle,  and  go  on  till  I  get 
to  the  end,  and  then  I  shall  stop.  I  don't  want  you  to 
say  anything  at  all.  It's  my  innings." 

"Peggy,  I  don't  want  to  die,  and  I  don't  intend  to 
die  if  I  can  help.  I  want  and  mean  to  get  well,  and  I 
shall  do  all  I  can  to  get  well.  But  when  one  is  told  that 
one  has  consumption,  one  has  to  realise  that  it  may 
mean  that  one  is  not  going  to  get  well.  So  about  dying. 
You  must  take  care  of  Hugh,  won't  you?  And  you 
must  make  him  marry  again.  I  tell  you  that  because — 
oh,  my  dear,  the  flesh  is  so  strong — though  I  mean  to 
tell  him  that  myself  if  I  find  I  am  getting  worse  instead 
of  better,  I  can't  be  certain  that  I  shall  be  able  to.  All 
that  is  at  all  decent  in  me  will  urge  me  to  tell  him,  but 
there  is  a  lot  in  me  that  isn't,  and  I  find,  and  shall  find, 
it  difficult  to  think  of  him  as  another  woman's  husband. 
And  perhaps  my  tongue  will  quite  refuse  to  ask  him  to 
promise  that  he  will  marry  again.  So  I  ask  you  to  tell 
him  in  case  I  don't. 


SHEAVES  301 

"That  is  the  most  important  thing  if  I  die.  And,  oh, 
Peggy,  if  I  am  to  die,  pray  that  it  may  come  quick,  and 
pray  that  I  shall  not  be  afraid.  I  hope  I  shall  not,  but 
one  can't  tell.  And  pray  that  my  darling  will  be  with  me 
when  it  comes,  that  his  face  will  be  the  last  I  see  here. 
Just  as  I  know — oh,  how  I  know  it — that  when  he  joins 
me,  mine  will  be  the  first  that  he  sees  on  the  other  side. 

"Then  this  afternoon  I  wondered  also  how  matters 
could  be  arranged,  what  about  Dennis?  And  as  I 
couldn't  possibly  know,  it  was  no  use  thinking  about 
that." 

"Peggy,  next  to  Hugh  and  baby,  you  are  the  person 
I  am  most  sorry  to  leave.  Don't  miss  me  too  much 
although  I  should  be  frantic  if  I  thought  you  wouldn't. 
And  remember  that  if  I  die,  I  now,  in  my  sober  senses, 
bless  and  praise  God  for  the  exquisite  happiness  I  have 
had.  I  should  have  loved  to  have  had  other  children, 
to  have  seen  them  grow  up;  I  can't  help  being  sorry, 
if  that  is  not  to  be.  That  is  why  I  don't  want  to  die. 
But,  oh,  what  a  splendid  time  I  have  had.  I  thank 
God  for  it.  Remember  that." 

Edith  had  been  speaking  again  with  her  hands  over 
her  eyes  just  as  she  had  spoken  to  the  doctor  this  morn- 
ing, but  here  she  took  them  away,  and  grasped  one  of 
her  sister's  hands  in  both  hers. 

"And  one  thing  more  about  dying,  and  I  have  done," 
she  said.  "You  mustn't  let  it  hurt  you  to  hear  me  talk 
of  it,  Peggy.  It  is  just  this.  You  know  how  you  dis- 
suaded me  from  marrying  Hugh,  saying  the  years  which 
made  me  old  would  leave  him  young.  Well,  perhaps 
you  were  right,  and  perhaps  this  is  the  solution  of  it. 
If  so,  I  am  quite  content.  I  would  infinitely  rather  die 
than  have  that  wintry  tragedy.  I  just  want  to  assure 
you  of  that,  and  that  is  all  about  dying." 


302  SHEAVES 

Edith  sat  silent  a  moment,  and  Peggy  could  not  speak, 
for  it  was  all  she  could  do  not  to  break  into  open  weeping. 
Had  Edith  been  less  gallant,  less  courageous  of  soul,  she 
could  have  consoled  and  strengthened  her.  But  she  stood 
in  no  need  of  that;  and  the  tears  that  stood  in  Peggy's 
eyes  were  more  of  love  and  admiration  than  of  pity. 

Then  Edith  rose. 

"Now  all  that  is  gone,"  she  said.  "We  put  it  all 
behind  us;  it  is  not  to  be.  I  am  going  to  live,  and,  oh, 
my  dear,  do  you  know  what  that  old  angel,  Sir  Thomas, 
told  me?  He  said  that  if  I  got  well  as  I  intend  to  do — I 
should  be  younger  and  better  than  I  am  now.  There 
is  the  other  solution.  I  would  dearly  like  to  renew  my 
youth  a  little,  to  have  the  health  and  vigour  of  the  past 
year  over  again  for  a  few  years  more.  That  is  worth 
living  for.  Some  day  I  shall  write  a  list  of  things 
worth  living  for.  There  are  heaps  of  them.  Sunshine 
and  snow,  and  Hugh,  and  music  and  you,  and  '  Gambits ' 
and  baby.  Those  are  only  the  first  few  that  occur  to 
me,  but  there  are  about  twenty  million  others  and  I 
am  going  to  live  for  them  all.  They  are  'Things  in 
General,'  in  fact,  which  we  spoke  of  the  other  day,  and 
are  all  delightful.  As  you  said,  one  has  to  make  them 
part  of  you.  And  I  am  going  to  do  exactly  what  I  am 
told,  and  leave  nothing  undone  that  can  help  to  make 
me  well,  and  do  nothing  that  can  stand  in  the  way  of  that. 
Ah,  I  forgot  Munich!  But  please  don't  argue  about 
Munich.  I  intend  to  go  there.  Also,  Peggy,  I  am  going 
to  tell-  Hugh  a  lie  about  it.  I  shall  tell  him  that  Sir 
Thomas  said  it  couldn't  possibly  hurt  me,  in  fact,  that 
he  recommended  me  to  go.  Otherwise,  you  see,  Hugh 
will  think  it  very  wrong  of  me  not  to  have  told  him  first, 
so  that  he  might  refuse  to  go.  I  daresay  it  is  wrong,  and 
it  is  also  selfish,  because  I  am  doing  it  simply  for  my 


SHEAVES  303 

pleasure.  But  I  don't  care.  I  will  start  being  good 
next  Tuesday  week,  and  not  before.  Oh,  and  one  more 
arrangement!  I  wish  you  would  take  care  of  baby 
and  his  nurse  until  we  get  settled  at  Davos." 

"Why,   of  course!"   said   Peggy. 

"That  is  dear  of  you.  And  you  must  come  out  with 
the  children  and  be  with  us  a  great  deal,  both  for  Hugh's 
sake  and  mine.  Oh,  Peggy,  Hugh  mustn't  get  bored, 
and  I  don't  see  how  to  help  it.  He  mustn't  stop  with 
me  out  there  after  the  ice  goes.  I  can't  cut  into  his  life 
like  that.  Ah!  well — one  needn't  think  about  that  yet. 
And,  my  dear,  if  ever  you  see  me  faltering  and  being 
cowardly  or  despondent  or  ungrateful,  try  not  to  notice 
it.  It  won't  be  me:  it  will  be  these  nasty  little  insects. 
I  shall  be  doing  my  best!  I  promise  you  that.  And  that 
is  all,  I  think." 

Again  she  held  out  her  hands  for  Peggy,  but  that  would 
not  do  for  Peggy. 

"Ah!  you  mustn't  kiss  me,"  cried  Edith.  "I 
promised  not  to  kiss  anybody." 

But  Peggy  clung  to  her. 

"Thank  God  for  people  like  you!"  she  said. 

Hugh  was  to  arrive  (and  did  so)  next  day,  for  he  and 
his  wife  were  starting  from  town  the  morning  after  for 
Munich,  and  he  arrived  rather  in  the  manner  of  a  loqua- 
cious whirlwind  in  the  middle  of  lunch.  He  greeted 
neither  Peggy  nor  Edith,  but  waved  a  telegraphic  form 
at  them. 

"I've  got  to  say  'Yes'  or  'No'  at  once!"  he  cried. 
"It  was  handed  to  me  at  the  station  at  Mannington, 
but  I  couldn't  reply  before  I  saw  you,  Edith,  as  Munich 
is  your  treat.  Burgmann  is  ill,  and  they  ask  if  I  will 
sing  'Tristan'  on  Monday  week  in  his  place.  Yes,  at 


3o4  SHEAVES 

Munich,  of  course,  I  said  so.  Heavens!  Do  you  grasp 
the  inwardness  of  this  sacred  fact?  An  Englishman 
asked  to  sing  'Tristan'  in  Germany,  to  the  high  ge-born 
Tedeschi!  Lord,  what  fun!  I  shall  go  mad,  as  Mr. 
Tree  said.  But  how  frightfully  chic  it  would  be  to  say 
'No.'  Yes,  chicken,  please." 

He  sat  down  and  turned  to  Edith. 

"It's  our  last  evening  there,"  he  said,  "and  it's  the 
last  performance  of  the  cycle.  Which  shall  we  do? 
Shall  we  sing,  or  shall  we  see?  I  want  you  to  settle." 

Edith  took  the  prepaid  form  which  Hugh  had  been 
waving  about  with  the  other. 

"  I  don't  settle,"  she  said;  "it  settles  itself.  Of  course 
you  sing.  Please  have  this  sent  at  once,  will  you, 
Peggy?" 

"Oh!  but  that's  rather  sudden,"  said  Hugh.  "You 
don't  consider  me.  I  shall  have  no  more  fun  now  until 
it's  over.  No  cigarettes,  no  anything  but  scales.  It 
may  be  awfully  nice  for  you — I  say,  that  sounds  so 
gloriously  conceited,  but  I  won't  alter  it — but  it  will 
absolutely  spoil  Munich  for  me." 

"Oh!  Hughie,  it  crowns  it  for  both  of  us,"  said  she. 

"I  travelled  up  with  Mrs.  Owen,"  said  Hugh,  eating 
very  rapidly,  "and  I  think  she's  going  to  the  dogs,  and 
if  so,  it's  your  influence  Edith.  She  smoked  a  cigarette 
in  the  train.  I  don't  think  your  influence  is  a  very 
good  one.  You  domineer,  too:  you  domineer  most 
frightfully.  That  sending  of  the  telegram  was  mere 
brute  force." 

"But  you  told  me  to  settle.  I  did  so.  Why,  Hugh, 
it  is  the  most  gorgeous  thing  that  ever  happened.  It's 
the  best  birthday  present  I  ever  received." 

Hugh  dropped  his  knife  and  fork  with  a  crash,  and 
jumped  up. 


SHEAVES  305 

"Why,  I  remembered  this  morning,"  he  said,  "and 
that  silly  telegram  drove  it  out  of  my  head  again.  Edith, 
my  darling,  many,  many  happy  returns " 

He  bent  over  her  to  kiss  her,  and,  forgetful  for  the 
moment,  she  raised  her  face  to  his.  Then,  and  it  was 
like  a  stab  to  her,  she  remembered.  Hugh's  face  was 
close  to  hers,  his  lips  all  but  touched  her. 

"Ah!  no,"  she  cried  quickly;  "you  mustn't  kiss  me. 
I've — I've  got  a  cold,  and  if  I  gave  it  you,  you  might 
not  be  able  to  sing.  Thank  you,  dear,  a  thousand 
times,  for  your  good  wishes." 

Hugh  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  in  mild  astonishment. 

"As  if  I  cared,"  he  said. 

"Ah,  but  I  do,"  said  Edith.  "You  catch  cold  so 
easily,  too." 

Hugh  went  back  to  his  seat. 

"  I  don't  like  your  having  colds,"  he  said,  "independ- 
ently of  the  fact  that  I  mayn't  kiss  you  on  your  birth- 
day. You  had  one  in  August;  now  you've  got  another. 
I've  a  good  mind — "  And  then  he  stopped. 

"  Hugh,  it's  very  rude  to  begin  sentences  and  not 
finish  them,"  said  Peggy. 

"Yes,  isn't  it?  By  the  way,  all  my  music  is  down 
at  Mannington.  I  must  go  and  get  a  copy  of  'Tristan' 
this  afternoon,  as  I  shall  have  to  begin  learning  it  up 
again  at  once.  What  are  my  ladies  going  to  do? " 

Peggy,  it  appeared,  was  at  leisure,  and  offered  to 
drive  him  where  he  wanted  in  the  motor;  Edith  had 
"things,"  so  she  comprehensively  expressed  it,  and  was 
at  nobody's  disposal  till  tea.  This,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
suited  Hugh's  "good  mind"  very  well,  and  soon  after 
lunch  he  set  out  with  Peggy.  But  no  sooner  were  they 
alone  than  he  announced  a  strangely  disconcerting 
manoeuvre. 


306  SHEAVES 

"Yes,  let's  go  and  get  'Tristan'  first,"  he  said,  '  and 
then  I  want  you  to  drop  me  at  Sir  Thomas  Ransom's. 
Edith's  got  no  business  to  have  colds.  I  shall  get  him 
to  come  and  see  her.  I've  several  times  thought  she 
wasn't  very  well,  but  she  always  said  she  was.  Do 
you  think  she's  well,  Peggy?" 

This  was  awkward,  but  after  an  extremely  rapid  con- 
sideration, Peggy  concluded  that  she  had  a  prior  engage- 
ment of  secrecy  to  Edith,  which  entailed  what  is  elegantly 
called  "diplomacy,"  in  dealing  with  Hugh. 

"No,  since  you  ask  me,  I  don't,"  she  began. 

"Then,  why  didn't  you  tell  me?" 

After  all  diplomatic  truth  would  serve  her  purpose. 
And  she  proceeded  to  use  extremely  misleading  accuracy. 

"Because  Edith  knows  it  herself,"  she  said;  "and  as 
a  matter  of  fact,  went  to  see  Sir  Thomas  yesterday, 
so  there  is  no  need  for  you  to  go.  In  any  case,  Hugh, 
you  can't  spring  a  doctor  on  a  grown-up  person,  as  if 
she  was  a  child.  But  I  know  she  saw  Sir  Thomas  yester- 
day. In  fact" — Peggy  paused  a  moment,  wondering 
how  far  astray  truth-telling  would  lead  her — "in  fact, 
I  went  with  her." 

"And  what  did  he  say?"  asked  Hugh,  with  incon- 
venient abruptness. 

Peggy  looked  firmly  out  of  the  window. 

" Oh!  what  doctors  always  say;  avoid  over-excitement 
and  curried  prawns,  and  hot  rooms  and  fatigue." 

"Then,  did  he  know  she  was  going  to  Munich?" 

"Yes;  oh,  yes — I  am  certain  of  that!  He — he 
encouraged  her  to  go." 

Peggy  was  beginning  to  feel  slightly  feverish  with 
the  strain  of  this,  and  there  was  a  heartache  in  every 
word.  But  she  had  promised  secrecy,  and  secrecy 
implied  that  she  would  do  her  best  that  Hugh  should 


SHEAVES  307 

suspect  nothing.  But  it  was  rather  hard  work,  for  Hugh 
showed  no  sign  of  being  tired  of  questioning  her.  Diplo- 
matic truth,  too,  having  served  its  turn,  was  discarded, 
and  diplomatic  inexactitude  had  become  necessary. 

"She  needed  encouragement,  then,"  said  Hugh. 
"She  felt  not  quite  up  to  it." 

"Not  at  all.  She  wanted  to  go  very  much,  and  he 
encouraged  her,  as  I  said." 

The  motor  stopped  at  this  moment  by  the  music 
shop  where  Hugh  was  to  buy  "Tristan,"  and  he  got  out. 

"I  shan't  be  a  minute,"  he  said.  "Will  you  wait 
for  me  and  drive  me  to  Harley  Street?" 

For  a  moment  after  Hugh  had  left  her  Peggy  seriously 
considered  the  propriety  of  telling  the  worse  lie,  breaking 
the  previous  engagement.  She  knew  quite  well  that 
what  she  and  Sir  Thomas  had  been  unable  to  do  Hugh 
could  do  with  the  utmost  ease.  In  a  moment  Edith 
would  consent  to  go  to  Davos  at  once  if  Hugh  wished  it, 
but  Hugh,  in  order  to  wish  it,  had  to  know  what  Peggy 
knew  and  was  bound  not  to  tell  him.  Yet  her  mind 
hesitated  between  the  two  courses,  and  for  the  first 
minute  of  waiting  she  had  no  idea  whether  she  would 
break  faith  to  Edith  or  really  lie — properly  lie  to  Hugh. 
She  had  seen  that  he  was  already  more  than  half  way 
toward  suspicion.  Either  she  had  to  quiet  that  by  really 
magnificent  lying,  or  by  lying,  quite  as  magnificent, 
break  faith  with  her  sister,  and  tell  him  all.  Then,  too, 
he  was  determined  to  see  Sir  Thomas.  Perhaps  Sir 
Thomas  might  not  see  his  way  to  lying,  if  Hugh  asked, 
as  he  probably  would,  more  of  these  direct  questions. 
And  if  Sir  Thomas  was  to  tell  him,  it  was  clearly  much 
better  that  she  should  do  so  first.  If  anybody  was  to 
tell  the  truth,  she  had  much  better  be  the  first  to  tell  it. 

And  then  the  determining  factor  came  into  her  mind, 


3o8  SHEAVES 

and  that  was  the  freedom  and  individuality  of  all  per- 
sons. When  vital  matters,  matters  of  life  and  death 
and  love,  came  on  to  the  stage,  the  ordering  of  the  stage, 
the  ordering  of  the  crowd,  the  lights,  the  whole  arrange- 
ment, must  be  made  to  fit  the  chief  actor.  Edith  on 
this  half-tragic,  half -triumphant  stage  that  was  set  for 
her  had  chosen  the  manner  of  the  enactment.  Peggy 
was  but  a  figure  in  the  crowd;  Edith  ordered  her  to  stand 
thus,  and  to  do  thus,  and  to  say  thus.  It  was  Edith's 
show.  She  had  ordered  Hugh  also  into  his  place,  that 
place  where  her  heart  was.  And  her  lover,  her  beloved, 
had  to  obey  no  less  than  Peggy.  This  week  of  Munich 
was  ordained.  Edith  knew  the  risks  she  ran,  and  she 
chose  to  run  them,  and,  after  all,  it  was  her  business. 
It  might  be  expensive,  but  it  was  fine.  It  was  young, 
too — gloriously,  unwisely  young — so  young  that  it 
made  Peggy  feel  dreadfully  old.  There  was  no  calcu- 
lation about  it,  no  counting  of  cost.  Edith  was  willing 
to  risk  anything  to  have  the  week  she  wanted,  the  week 
of  the  boisterous,  unsuspecting  Hugh.  Oh!  that  passion- 
ate enjoyment  of  the  pleasure  of  somebody  else!  The 
seven  veils  of  the  sanctuary  lift  there.  It  was  the  aban- 
donment of  love;  and  whether  the  tragedy  to  be  paid 
for  was  long  weeks  of  lingering  illness,  or  any  other 
supreme  torture,  the  price  was  cheap.  Peggy  divined 
that;  Edith  knew  it.  And  mentally  Peggy  abased  her- 
self when  the  light  of  that  vision  shone  upon  her,  as  it 
did  while  she  waited  in  Berners  Street  for  Hugh. 

He  did  not  keep  her  waiting  long,  and  Peggy  at  once 
began  to  weave  the  web  of  the  deceit  that  was  forced 
on  her.  Few  people  had  had  less  practice  in  that  diffi- 
cult art  than  she,  and  as  she  conducted  this  piece  of 
diplomacy,  she  felt  that  she  really  must  have  a  great 
natural  gift  that  way.  At  the  same  time  she  remembered 


SHEAVES  309 

having  been  diplomatic  to  Hugh  over  the  question 
of  their  going  to  Mannington  in  the  summer,  and  her 
diplomacy  had  been  blessed  with  singular  success.  Now 
she  had  two  objects  in  view,  one  that  Hugh  should  not 
go  to  Sir  Thomas,  the  other  that  the  vague  uneasiness 
that  was  certainly  rising,  mist-like,  from  his  mind 
should  be  dispelled.  Edith  should  have  the  sunny  week 
that  her  soul  desired,  and  for  that  an  unanxious,  unsus- 
pecting Hugh  was  necessary.  She  should  have  him,  if 
Peggy  could  procure  him. 

"Such  a  wiss  idea  of  yours  to  go  and  see  Sir  Thomas! " 
she  said,  with  extraordinary  craft,  "because  he  will 
certainly  laugh  at  you,  and  that  perhaps  will  set  your 
mind  at  ease.  And  it's  most  important  that  it  should 
be  at  rest.  Really  it  matters  more  than  anything  else." 

"Why?     How  is  that  ?"  asked  Hugh. 

"Oh!  dear  me,  how  stupid  men  are!  Can't  you  see 
that  Edith  is  looking  forward  to  Munich  with  the  keenest, 
most  vivid  anticipations?  Well,  at  the  risk  of  making 
you  more  conceited  than  you  are  already,  I  will  tell  you 
why.  It's  because  she  is  going  to  be  alone  with  you  and 
your  enjoyment.  There  is  nothing  in  the  world  she  loves 
as  much  as  seeing  you  have  a  good  time.  And  it  will 
spoil  it  all  for  her  if  you  are  uneasy  and  causelessly 
anxious.  That's  why  I  urge  you  to  see  Sir  Thomas." 

This  had  a  very  distinct  effect  on  Hugh. 

"My  seeing  Sir  Thomas  is  nothing,"  he  said.  "But 
I  felt  as  if  you  were  keeping  somethin^  back.  Can't 
you  tell  me  what  he  said?" 

"I  can't  go  into  medical  details,"  said  Peggy;  "but 
I  can- tell  you  this,  that  when  Edith  called  me  in  after 
she  had  consulted  him  and  told  me  what  he  had  said 
we  both  simply  sat  and  roared  with  laughter.  And  I 
rather  think  he  joined^" 


3io  SHEAVES 

Hugh  gave  a  great  sigh  of  relief,  and  Peggy  ejaculated 
"God  forgive  me!"  below  her  breath. 

"Oh,  why  didn't  you  tell  me  that?"  he  said. 

"Because  I  thought  it  so  much  better  that  you  should 
see  Sir  Thomas,"  said  Peggy  quite  glibly. 

Hugh  turned  on  her. 

"You  have  the  making  of  a  diplomatist,"  he  said. 
"What's  the  use  of  my  seeing  Sir  Thomas  now  you  have 
told  me  that?  And  Edith  really  looks  forward  to  Mu- 
nich, and  it  will  spoil  it  if  I'm  not  in  tearing  spirits ? 
Lord!  I  won't  spoil  it.  Where  shall  we  go  instead?" 

"The  Zoo,"  said  Peggy  without  hesitation. 

Hugh  called  the  changed  direction  out  of  the  window 
to  the  chauffeur,  and  sat  silent  awhile. 

"After  all,  it  was  absurd  of  me  to  think  there  could 
be  anything  wrong,"  he  said,  "or  of  course  she  would 
have  told  me." 

Peggy  sighed,  an  elaborate,  effective  sigh. 

"I  was  wondering  when  that  would  occur  to  you," 
she  observed. 

Hugh  let  this  pass. 

"  So  I've  just  got  to — to  shout  and  sing? "  he  asked. 

"Yes,  if  you  want  Edith  to  have  a  good  time.  I  can 
tell  you,  too,  that  I  have  never  seen  her  look  forward 
with  such  pleasure  to  anything  as  this  Munich  trip.  It's 
taken  her  fancy." 

"I'm  her  man,  then,"  said  Hugh. 

Peggy  thought  it  incumbent  on  her  to  tell  Edith 
what  had  occurred,  feeling  that  she  might  view  this 
deliberate  deception  in  a  different  light  to  the  mere 
concealment  which  was  all  that  she  had  contemplated. 
But  Edith  poured  scorn  on  her  scruples. 

"Peggy,  you  are  a  true  friend!"  she  said,  "and  how 


SHEAVES  311 

easily  you  seem  to  have — well,  told  the  truth.  It's 
quite  Bismarckian.  Have  you  been  practising  lately?" 

Peggy  was  slowly  pulling  off  her  gloves. 

"No,  I  don't  think  I  have,"  she  said.  "Oh!  I  was 
diplomatic  with  Hugh  once  in  the  summer,  I  remember, 
and  I  rather  enjoyed  it.  But,  oh!  Edith,  it  gave  me  the 
heartache  this  afternoon.  And  what  will  Hugh  think 
of  me  when  he  knows  ? ' ' 

"He  will  think  that  you  have  been  a  true  friend  to 
me,"  said  her  sister.  "He  will  love  you  for  it  when — 
when  he  understands.  Ah!  but  we  are  on  forbidden 
ground  again." 

Edith  paused. 

"I  remember  once  talking  to  you  about  Hugh's  first 
appearance  in  town,"  she  said.  "I  told  you  then  that 
if  he  failed,  which  was  impossible,  I  should  not  be  sorry, 
because  I  would  have  to  comfort  him  again,  and  make 
him  happy.  Well,  that  is  closer  to  me  now.  When 
I  tell  him  what  Sir  Thomas  told  me  yesterday  he  will 
want  that  comfort.  But  now  he  will  really  want  it, 
for  I  am  more  to  him  than  his  art." 

Edith  gently  smoothed  the  sofa  cushion  beside  her. 

"I  am — I  really  am!"  she  said. 


The  dressing-gong  sounded  sonorously   and  its  echoes 
died  into  silence. 

"You  will  see,"  said  Edith. 


CHAPTER  XV 

EDITH  finished  writing  the  words  "  gigantic  success," 
and  then  laid  down  her  pen,  having  filled  the  very 
small  space  allotted  to  correspondence  on  a  picture 
postcard  that  bore  on  its  back  a  highly-coloured  view 
of  the  opera-house  in  Munich,  and  on  the  space  allotted 
to  the  address  the  name  of  Peggy.  Then  she  tore  it  up. 
She  wanted  to  say  more  than  that  to  Peggy ,  and  though 
she  was  tired,  she  felt  she  must  write  her  a  letter  which 
should  give  her  in  less  meagre  quantity  (and  in  quality 
things  more  private  than  could  be  sent  face  upward 
through  Europe)  some  little  impression  of  the  week  that 
had  elapsed  since  she  left  England.  And  in  order  to 
do  that  she  found  that  she  must  arrange  and  sound  her 
thoughts  and  her  memory,  for  she  had  lived  simply  from 
the  minute  to  the  minute,  enjoying  each  to  the  utter- 
most, yet  somehow  not  grudging  their  passage,  for  each 
was  sufficient  in  itself. 

Her  windows  were  wide  open,  but  the  sun  had  slanted 
westward,  so  that  the  balcony  outside  was  in  shade, 
though  ever  so  little  way  beyond  the  white  glare  fell  on 
the  road  with  its  avenue  of  dusty  trees.  Though  Sep- 
tember was  near  to  its  end,  and  during  the  first  three 
days  of  their  stay  here  there  had  been  cold  and  frosty 
nights,  it  seemed  as  if  the  sun  had  repented  of  his  winter- 
heralding  withdrawal,  and  had  come  back  to  give  them 
a  few  hours  more  of  summer  days.  And  at  this  moment 
it  struck  Edith,  yet  with  no  touch  of  sadness,  how  like 
to  this  beneficent  return  of  June-like  heat  was  her  own 
case.  In  London,  ten  days  ago,  the  forerunning  foot 

312 


SHEAVES  313 

of  winter  had  struck  her,  yet  now  in  her  life,  no  less  than 
in  the  ordering  of  the  season  of  the  year,  summer  with 
shout  and  banners  renewed  for  a  moment  its  miracle. 
Outside  it  was  hot  and  windless  and  dry,  and  as  she 
moved  to  her  window  she  drew  in  a  long  breath  of  the 
eternal,  unfading  air.  There  even  the  sensitive  leaves 
of  the  white  poplars  were  still;  there  was  but  little 
traffic  in  the  street,  the  awnings  below  her  -room  and 
above  her  balcony  neither  stirred  nor  flapped  in  the 
blazing  tranquillity.  Calm,  omnipotent  summer  reigned. 
And  to-night  Hugh  was  to  sing  in  "Tristan." 

It  was  not  in  Munich,  so  she  felt,  it  was  not  on  the 
Cornish  coast,  it  was  not  by  the  banks  of  the  Scheldt 
or  the  Pegnitz,  nor  even  in  the  giant-built  towers  of 
Walhalla,  that  she  had  lived  during  this  week  that  would 
come  to  a  close  to-night.  She  and  Hugh  had  lived  far 
away  from  any  human  place,  yet  in  a  place  that,  lovers 
and  music-lovers,  each  had  felt  to  be  his  own,  and  more 
familiar  and  dear  than  any  other  home.  Heart  and 
treasure  lay  there,  and  even  Walhalla  was  leagues, 
immeasurable  leagues,  below  it.  Trouble  and  anxiety 
and  fear  were  strangers  to  it,  or  at  the  most  (and  that 
only  for  one  of  them)  lay  as  some  thunderstorm  in  an 
Alpine  valley  lies  far  below  the  feet  and  the  eyes  of  those 
who  have  climbed  above  it  into  the  clear,  passionate 
altitudes  that  are  domed  in  sky  and  floored  by  ice.  All 
week  long  they  had  mounted,  mounted  through  the  fine 
austere  air;  and  life,  all  they  knew  of  life,  had  been  put 
in  a  crucible  and  distilled  for  their  drinking.  All  that 
was  to  be,  whatever  that  was,  had  for  these  days  been 
expunged  from  memory  and  from  anticipation:  it  had 
been  all  to  sit  on  this  rose-coloured  peak,  hand-entwined, 
without  seeing  the  troubled  cloud  below,  without  hearing 
the  thunder  and  the  voices  that  cried  out  of  it,  She  had 


3i4  SHEAVES 

determined  not  to  think  of  the  descent,  not  to  conjecture 
about  the  dangers  and  misty  passages  of  the  journey  till 
the  time  for  descent  had  come.  It  would  come  to-night, 
but  before  it  came  there  would  come  the  divinest  hour 
of  all,  the  rosiest  flames  of  sunset,  when  she  would  sit 
in  the  hushed  house  and  hear.  .  .  . 

The  week  had  been  her  treat  to  Hugh,  and  the  com- 
pact had  been  that  he  should  ask  no  questions.  Possibly 
it  was  child-like,  possibly  it  was  a  barbaric  notion  of 
hospitality;  but  it  had  given  her  enormous  pleasure 
to  throw  money  about  for  him,  to  take  the  most  expen- 
sive suite  of  rooms,  to  have  masses  of  fresh  flowers  in 
day  after  day,  to  have  a  really  smart  carriage  always 
waiting,  to  have  meals  in  a  private  dining-room.  Some- 
how, on  the  material  plane,  infinitesimal  though  it  all 
was,  she  wanted  to  express  that  which  so  filled  and 
flooded  her;  she  would  have  liked  to  furnish  this  room 
afresh,  to  have  railings  of  gold  for  the  balconies  and 
frescoes  for  the  walls,  and  then  at  the  end  of  the  week 
to  burn  and  destroy  it  all.  She  had,  in  fact,  gone  as  far 
as  was  consistent  with  sanity,  but  not  being  insane  had 
not  gone  farther. 

Tired!  Oh!  how  tired  she  had  been  again  and  again, 
and  how  indomitably  she  had  spurned  fatigue!  The 
glory,  the  jest  of  it,  too!  Again  and  again  Hugh  had 
said  that  he  really  must,  if  she  didn't  mind,  lie  down 
and  rest,  if  he  was  to  keep  awake  during  the  opera.  She 
had  beaten  him  at  his  own  game,  at  youth,  and  time 
and  again  he  had  confessed  as  much.  He  had  even 
confided  to  her  his  projected  errand  to  Sir  Thomas  on 
their  last  day  in  London,  in  order  to  satisfy  himself  that 
she  was  "up  to  Munich."  Now  it  was  he  who  had 
wondered  if  he  was.  But  all  the  time  she  had  clung  to 
her  supposed  cold;  she  had  insisted  that  she  had  a  really 


SHEAVES  315 

bad  one,  and  that  she  would  not  permit  Hugh  the 
least  risk  of  catching  it.  And  at  such  moments  a  cloud 
came  over  her  sun,  there  was  an  echo  of  heart-breaking 
things  from  the  valley  below,  and  hunger  on  these 
heights. 

Yes;  fear  had  been  there;  she  knew  that  her  ears 
had  heard  that  echo  and  her  heart  had  felt  that  hunger, 
though  for  a  stray  moment  or  two  only.  As  quick  as 
hands  could  move  her  fingers  had  stopped  her  ears,  and 
nimbly  had  put  before  her  heart  the  feast  that  was 
spread  for  it  now.  And  it  was  only  of  the  perfection  of 
the  present  hour  that  she  wrote  to  Peggy;  no  hint  of 
the  coming  winter  was  there,  though  measured  by  the 
actual  lapse  of  minutes  it  was  but  an  hour  or  two  before 
summer  would  cease.  But  before  summer  ceased  she 
would  see  Tristan  once  more,  her  Tristan. 

By  the  time  her  letter  to  Peggy  was  finished  it  was 
time  for  her  to  dress  for  the  opera.  Hugh  had  already 
gone  down  to  the  house,  and  she  had  a  little  soup  and 
a  cutlet  only,  for,  as  usual,  they  were  going  to  have 
supper  together  after  the  opera.  To-night,  however, 
since  Hugh  was  going  to  sing,  he  had  eaten  nothing  for 
some  hours  before,  and  their  supper  was  to  be  of  sub- 
stantial nature.  She  had  planned  it  all;  she  had 
ordered  the  dishes  that  she  liked  as  well  as  he.  They 
were  going  to  have  some  cold  soup,  a  dish  of  blue  trout, 
a  partridge,  and  a  savoury.  All  this  was  bathed  in  the 
setting  rays  of  this  last  day  of  summer  sun;  it  would 
illumine,  too,  their  coffee,  and  the  cigarette  which  Hugh 
would  smoke  with  it.  And  during  that  cigarette,  so 
she  determined,  summer  was  to  cease.  It  was  then  she 
would  tell  him. 

For   a   moment,    as    she   dressed  for  the  opera,  she 


316  SHEAVES 

wondered  how  he  would  take  it.  It  was  worse  for  him 
than  her ;  her  whole  attitude  toward  life  and  her  instinct 
told  her  that  with  the  same  certainty  with  which  she 
knew  that  it  was  easier,  vastly  easier  for  her  to  know 
that  she  had  consumption  than  it  would  have  been  to 
learn  that  Hugh  had.  That  was  what  love  meant; 
just  that  one  simple  fact  that  to  the  woman  who  loves, 
her  husband  is  more  truly  herself  than  she.  That  was 
no  news  to  her;  she  had  known  it  ever  since  she  had 
known  Hugh.  And  it  could  not  have  been  true  of  her 
if  it  had  not  been  true  of  him  also.  Oh,  poor  Hugh, 
poor  Hugh! 

Then  with  complete  erasure  she  banished  the  thoughts 
of  what  that  hour  round  about  midnight  this  evening 
would  bring.  She  was  still  in  love  with  life,  with  the 
huge  exultant  happiness  that  is  the  birthright  of  clean 
and  normal  souls  who  love  another.  Such  happiness, 
the  highest  and  the  best  of  all  earthly  bliss,  is  no  nig- 
gardly distillation  of  human  life ;  to  produce  it  a  hundred 
or  a  myriad  souls  have  not  to  be  boiled  down  in  torment 
of  fire  or  refined  through  starvation  of  joy  so  that,  basil- 
like,  it  may  put  forth  its  flowers  from  roots  that  have 
been  enriched  with  the  life-blood  and  tears  of  the  many, 
nor  is  it  rare  or  recondite  and  only  to  be  perceived  by  the 
JEolian  harps  of  the  world.  Instead  it  is  a  common, 
common  bliss;  none  seek  it  or  strain  after  it,  but  there 
are  but  few  who  do  not  find  it.  Her  sweet  simple 
soul  loved  Hugh;  Hugh,  as  simple  as  herself,  loved 
her.  And  if  shadows  of  the  dark  valley  were  near,  that 
would  be  the  all-sufficing  lamp  which  would  dissipate 
them. 

Then  crowning  this  crown,  which  was  hers,  was  a 
further  gem-like  circlet.  To  him  the  supreme  gift  of  song 
had  been  given,  to  her  the  supremacy  of  appreciation. 


SHEAVES  317 

.  And  it  was  time  to  go  downstairs   and   drive 
to  the  opera  to  hear  "Tristan." 


It  had  been  arranged  that,  since  the  opera-house  was 
so  close  to  their  hotel,  she  should  not  wait  for  Hugh  when 
it  was  over,  but  come  straight  home,  and  she  waited 
there  some  time  before  he  joined  her  in  an  exultation 
of  happiness.  The  ceasing  of  summer,  which  was  now 
so  close  in  the  measure  of  minutes,  not  hours  any  longer, 
was  banished  from  her  consciousness.  Hugh  and 
Tristan,  inextricably  intermingled,  usurped  it  all. 
She  tried  to  reconstruct  the  events  of  the  evening,  and 
found  them  misty.  She  only  knew  that  the  audience. 
German,  instinctively  opposed  to  an  English  artist, 
but  critical,  lancet-like,  and,  after  all,  when  their 
emotions  were  roused,  fair,  had  lost  their  heads.  Fat 
London  had  been  moved  over  Hugh's  Lohengrin;  but 
Germany,  not  fat,  like  London,  in  matters  of  perception 
and  appreciation,  had  been  much  more  than  moved. 

What  had  happened  exactly?  .  .  .  The  end  of  the 
first  act?  Yes,  Hugh  had  been  nervous,  quite  obviously 
nervous,  and  had  not  done  himself  justice,  nor  had  he 
done  justice  to  the  glorious  rdle  for  which  he  was  cast. 
And  then?  Edith  had  sent  round  a  note  to  him,  saying: 

"My  darling,  I  am  playing  Isolde,  and  I  don't  find 
you.  Isolde,  Isolde." 

And  a  note  had  come  back  to  her. 

"I'm  so  nervous  I  can't  do  anything.  But  I'll  try, 
Isolde." 

It  appeared  that  he  had  tried.  As  the  curtain  went 
down  on  the  second  act  the  theatre  rose  as  if  the  Emperor 
had  entered.  But  it  was  Hugh. 

It  was  Hugh  in  the  third  act.     Hugh!     And  critical 


3i  8  SHEAVES 

Germany  during  the  third  act  committed  a  unique  fault 
of  taste.  It  had  been  foreshadowed  in  a  way,  because 
once  and  again  as  Tristan  yearned  for  the  coming  of  the 
ship  a  sort  of  under-breathed  groan  had  gone  through 
the  packed  house.  Then,  when  Tristan  had  sung  his 
last  note,  the  interruption  occurred.  The  play  was 
stopped;  the  orchestra,  inaudible  beneath  the  shouts, 
were  stopped  also,  and  a  huge  roar  of  applause  went  up, 
damning  the  artistic  reputation  of  Munich  for  years  to 
come.  "Tristan!  Tristan!"  was  the  cry.  But  to 
Edith  the  cry  was  "Hugh!" 

Ah!  but  how  proud  she  was  of  him  then,  not  for  that 
which  he  had  done,  but  for  that  which  he  did  not  do. 
He  had  fallen,  loose  jointed  and  lay  with  face  toward  the 
house,  and  not  a  quiver  of  eyelash,  not  a  movement  of 
the  nightingale  throat,  not  a  curl  of  his  mouth  answered 
the  thunder  of  the  applause.  Edith  had  not.  even  when 
that  thunder  rose  to  its  highest,  been  afraid  that  he 
would  respond,  but  it  was  glorious  to  her  to  see  hov,- 
still  he  lay.  An  almost  irresistible  appeal  had  come 
from  the  thousand  throats  but  the  artist  since  it  was 
personal,  since  it  was  to  his  voice  and  his  personality 
to  which  it  was  made,  was  utterly  unconscious  of  it. 
Tristan,  who  he  was,  lay  dead.  Soon  after  Isolde  sang 
the  Liebstod. 

"The  death  song,"  thought  Edith  "What  if  I  sing 
another?  Oh,  Hugh,  Hugh!" 

It  was  then  that  Hugh  came  in,  as  she  sat  in  the 
window,  while  the  table  laid  for  their  supper  stood  ready, 
Munich  had  gone  mad  about  him,  and  from  where  she 
sat  in  the  window  she  had  heard  the  distant  roar  that  had 
greeted  him  as  he  came  out  of  the  theatre,  which  had 
grown  gradually  louder  and  louder  till  now  the  square 
outside  was  packed  with  the  music-mad.  She  had 


SHEAVES  319 

guessed  at  once  what  that  distant  roar  meant,  and  her 
guess  had  grown  into  certainty  as  it  grew  louder  and 
nearer.  And  Hugh  came  in. 

"Ah!  your  note  to  me,"  he  said — "it  was  that.  Oh! 
isn't  it  fun?  I  told  you  it  would  be!  And  they  took 
the  horses  out  and  dragged  me,  the  darlings!" 

The  agitated  proprietor  tapped  and  entered,  and  a 
short  conference  ensued.  The  upshot  was  that  if  the 
high-born  would  of  his  graciousness  show  himself  or 
sing  on  the  balcony,  all  would  be  well,  otherwise  the 
inhabitants  of  the  hotel  might  have  a  night  that  began 
very  late.  If  the  high-born  gave  permission,  the 
proprietor  would  announce  the  fact. 

"But  I'm  so  hungry!"  said  Hugh. 

The  proprietor  had  been  present  at  the  opera. 

"I  beseech  you!"  he  said. 

"Yes,  Hugh,"  said  Edith. 

"Then  you  will  come  with  me?"  asked  Hugh. 

Ah!  but  how  the  summer  sun  blazed  then.  She  but 
nodded  to  him,  and  with  a  reverence  of  extraordinary 
amplitude  to  them  both,  the  proprietor  shouted  a  few 
guttural  words  from  the  balcony.  Then  he  bowed  and 
came  back  into  the  room. 

Hugh  took  Edith's  arm. 

'"Together,"  he  said;  and  together  they  went  out  on 
to  the  balcony.  The  night  was  windless,  and  the  flame 
of  the  gas-lamps  burned  without  wavering.  The  whole 
square  was  packed  with  faces,  and  full  of  a  low  hubbub 
of  talk.  But  when  the  two  appeared  the  hubbub  ceased 
and  silence  like  an  incoming  tide  spread  everywhere. 
Then  Hugh  turned  quickly  to  the  proprietor. 

"Hi!  did  you  say   I  was  going  to  sing?"  he  asked. 

"I  said  it  was  possible.  A  thousand  pardons,"  said 
this  perfidious  man,  manoeuvring  into  a  better  place, 


32o  SHEAVES 

Hugh  drew  a  long  breath,  and  with  his  arm  in  Edith's 
stepped  on  to  the  edge  of  the  balcony.  Then  he  turned 
side-face  to  the  crowd,  unlinked  his  arm  from  hers,  and 
took  both  her  hands  in  his.  He  did  not  look  out  over 
the  crowd;  he  looked  at  her.  And  he  sang: 
*  "Du  meine  Seele,  du  tnein  Herz." 

At  the  end  there  was  dead  silence,  for  he  unloosed 
one  of  his  hands  and  held  it  to  the  crowd. 

"Good-night,  friends,"  he  said  in  good,  firm  German; 
"and  we  are  all  going  to  sleep.  Hush!  Thank  you." 

Then  he  took  Edith's  arm  again,  and  they  went  back 
to  the  waiting  supper.  The  window,  through  which 
they  had  entered  again,  he  had  left  wide  open,  but  the 
only  sound  that  came  in  was  the  movement  of  feet 
dispersing. 

"And  that  was  the  best  of  all,  Hughie!  "  said  she. 

Edith  could  not  quite  rise  to  the  superficial  heights 
of  gaiety  during  their  supper,  but  it  was  even  more 
impossible  for  her  to  rise — or  sink — to  any  tragic  level. 
Some  equable  level  was  there;  she  neither  feared  what 
she  had  to  tell,  nor  did  she  rise  to  it  by  any  exaltation  of 
spirit  that  commanded  her  to  think  that  nothing  mat- 
tered, when  happiness  shone  like  this.  Life  and  death 
and  sickness  and  health  in  her  mind  took  their  natural 
level ;  all  of  them  were  to  her  the  commonplace  of  souls 
that  lived;  to  every  soul  these  things  happened:  they 
were  all  on  the  same  plane,  because  they  were  so  big. 

Just  as  she  had  anticipated,  Hugh  took  a  cigarette 
with  his  coffee,  and  she  watched  the  burning  ash  get 
nearer  to  his  fingers.  When  it  got  quite  close  she  would 
speak.  At  present  it  was  half  an  inch  off.  So  she  still 
talked  of  that  of  which  thev  had  talked. 


SHEAVES  321 

"But  why  Tristan  did  not  come  to  life  when  the 
Liebestod  was  sung  over  him,"  she  said,  "is  what  I  can- 
not imagine.  Surely  it  was  enough  to  make  the  dead 
live." 

"Sing  it  over  me,  then"  said  Hugh,  "when  you  watch 
by  my  corpse.  I  will  come  to  life,  I  promise  you,  which 
is  more  than  I  did  to-night.  What  Vandals,  to  interrupt 
like  that!" 

"Yes,  Vandals,  "said  she;  "but  I  didn't  feel  surprised." 

"  O,  that's  all  rot,"  said  Hugh.  "  But  how  I  loved  the 
interruption,  and  how  I  longed  to  open  one  eyelid. 
But  I  didn't." 

"No,  you  didn't." 

Hugh  leaned  forward  over  the  table,  his  eyes  and  his 
hands  toward  his  wife. 

"  My  life! "  he  said.  "  How  stupid  that  sort  of  phrase 
used  to  sound  until  one  knew  that  it  was  true.  My 
life!  Yes,  I  look  at  you,  my  life;  that  has  become 
literally  true.  Oh,  true  in  big  ways  and  small  ways 
alike." 

The  cigarette  was  getting  shorter,  and  Hugh  took  a 
long  inhalation  of  it,  and  flipped  off  a  piece  of  charred 
paper. 

"Yes,  big  ways  and  small  ways,"  he  repeated. 
"  Big  ways,  because  you  gave  me  myself,  which  is  you, 
and  small  ways  because  I  sang  to-night,  both  in  the  silly 
opera-house  and  on  that  silly  balcony,  because  I  was  you. 
Don't  you  understand?  Sometimes  I  think  you  don't 
and  it  is  so  odd  that  you  shouldn't." 

Still  Edith  was  silent,  for  she  would  have  to  speak 
very  soon  now,  and  without  a  pause  Hugh  went  on — 

"Considering  that  it  is  you  who  made  me  begin  to 
understand,"  he  said,  "it  is  odd  that  you  shouldn't 
know  what  you  have  done.  I  don't  know  who  and  what 


322  SHEAVES 

you  are,  or  who  or  what  I  am,  but  I  do  know  that  we  are  It. 
It,  life,  call  it  what  you  please.  And  how  is  your  cold? " 
he  asked  suddenly,  placing  his  cigarette-end  in  his  coffee- 
cup. 

The  burning  ash  hissed  in  protest,  and  was  still. 
Then  Edith  answered  him. 

"It  isn't  any  better,  Hughie,"  she  said.  "It  won't 
be  better  for  a  long  time.  Are  you  comfortable  there? 
If  not,  let  us  move,  because  I  have  to  talk  to  you." 

Once  before  she  remembered  having  said  to  Peggy 
that  she  almost  wanted  Hugh  to  be  unhappy  so  that  she 
might  comfort  him,  for  she  knew,  or  thought  she  knew, 
that  she  could  always  do  that.  But  she  had  to  make 
him  unhappy  first — strike  this  dreadful  blow.  Already, 
so  to  speak,  he  had  seen  her  arm  raised  against  him  in  the 
few  words  she  had  just  spoken:  he  knew  that  some 
blow  impended,  and  though  his  face  was  still  eager  and 
vivid,  the  expression  on  it  seemed  suddenly  fixed.  He 
waited — tense,  rigid,  while  his  hand  that  had  just 
dropped  the  cigarette-end  into  his  cup  turned  over  at 
the  wrist,  like  a  dead  hand,  and  dropped  on  to  the  table- 
cloth. Then  he  spoke  below  his  breath. 

"Quick — tell  me  quickly,"  he  said;  "I  can  bear  any- 
thing except  waiting." 

She  took  the  hand  that  lay  on  the  table-cloth  in  both 
of  hers,  but  it  still  lay,  as  if  dead,  not  responding  to  her 
pressure. 

"I  have  got  consumption,"  she  said. 

Hugh  drew  back  his  head  a  moment,  blinking  and 
wincing  as  if  from  a  physical  blow,  and  summer  stopped. 

Neither  moved,  neither  spoke.  Edith,  having  struck 
the  inevitable  blow,  laid  down  the  weapon,  and  her  soul 
stood  waiting,  so  to  speak,  listening  eagerly  for  Hugh 
to  call  to  her  in  his  pain,  so  that  she  might  go  to  him 


SHEAVES  323 

a.id  comfort  him  and  bind  up  the  wound  she  had  made. 
There  was  nothing  nearer  to  her  heart  than  that,  nothing 
that  she  so  desired,  and  nothing  of  all  that  had  been 
could  be  so  exquisite.  Summer  might  have  stopped, 
but  on  this  winter's  day  there  was  splendour  of  sun  and 
snow.  She  had  not  foreseen  that. 

But  just  yet  Hugh  could  not  call  to  her,  he  could  not 
even  need  her  yet,  for  he  was  dizzy  and  reeling  with  the 
blow.  He  had  no  power  to  move:  the  very  fact  that  a 
moment  before  all  the  depths  of  his  nature — all  the 
strength  of  his  love  for  her — had  been  so  dominant,  so 
triumphant,  made  this  paralysis  the  more  complete. 
And  in  this  stunning  of  his  true  and  essential  self,  the 
surface  perception,  the  mere  habitual  work  of  eyes  and 
ears  and  touch  seemed  suddenly  quickened,  just  as 
Edith's  had  been  when  Sir  Thomas  told  her  this  same 
thing.  A  little  odour  as  of  caramel  came  from  the  cup 
where  he  had  dropped  his  cigarette-end,  from  the  sugar 
no  doubt,  which  had  been  burned  before  the  sweet  dregs 
quenched  the  red-hot  ash:  as  his  hand  turned  over  on 
to  the  table-cloth  he  had  knocked  the  spoon  out  of  the 
saucer,  and  the  clink  of  it  as  it  fell  sounded  in  his  ears 
more  clearly  than  even  those  four  words  which  Edith 
had  spoken.  The  lace  curtains  by  the  window  out  of 
which  so  short  a  time  ago  he  and  Edith  had  stepped  on 
to  the  balcony  just  stirred  in  a  little  breeze  that  had 
arisen  during  the  last  half-hour;  on  the  mantelpiece 
a  striking  clock  jarred  to  show  the  hour  was  approaching. 
And  the  touch  of  Edith's  hands  on  his  meant  no  more  to 
him  than  would  the  touch  of  any  other  hand  have  meant. 
Hands  touched  him,  anybody's  hands.  Eyes  looked  at 
him,  too,  from  that  beloved  face  opposite,  but  they  were 
anybody's  eyes,  it" was  anybody's  face. 

Then  the  sensitiveness  of  surface-perception  grew  a 


324  SHEAVES 

little  deadened  as  the  paralysis  of  the  internal  percep- 
tion began,  very  slowly,  starting  from  the  surface  and 
working  gradually  inward,  to  pass  off. 

"And  we  were  so  happy!"  he  said. 

So  he  was  beginning  to  need  her. 

"Yes,  thank  God,  my  darling,"  said  she.  "Let  us 
often  think  how  happy  we  have  been." 

He  could  not  receive,  assimilate  more  than  that  at 
once.  It  was  for  the  moment  no  use,  so  she  felt,  to 
speak  hopefully,  determinedly  of  the  future,  of  her 
unquenchable  resolve  to  get  well.  He  would  be  ready  for 
that  soon,  but  not  quite  yet,  poor  darling.  So  she 
waited. 

"When  did  you  know?"  asked  he  quietly. 

"Just  before  we  left  London.  I  could  not  do  without 
this  beautiful  week  we  have  just  had,  Hughie.  So  I 
did  not  tell  you  till  it  was  over." 

"Then — then  your  having  a  cold  meant  that?"  he 
asked. 

"Yes." 

Hugh  pushed  back  his  chair  with  sudden  vehemence, 
got  up,  and  roughly,  strongly,  so  that  she  was  both  hurt 
and  startled,  flung  his  arms  round  her,  pinioning  hers, 
and  kissed  her.  He  devoured  her  face  with  kisses,  eyes 
and  mouth,  forehead  and  hair  and  neck  were  sealed 
with  the  redness  and  fervour  of  his  lips.  It  was  vain 
for  her  to  struggle  with  this  almost  savage  outburst  of 
love;  it  was  in  vain  for  her  to  remonstrate,  for  he 
stopped  her  breath  with  his.  Yet  she  tried;  but,  oh, 
how  sweet  it  was  to  find  her  struggle,  her  remonstrance, 
useless.  How  during  this  last  ten  days  she  had  missed 
and  yearned  for  the  caress  of  his  eager  breath,  the  rough- 
ness and  smoothness  of  his  face,  his  eyes  burning  close 
to  hers  as  they  burned  now.  And  for  him  that  physical 


SHEAVES  325 

contact  which  the  tumult  of  his  love  demanded  shook 
off  the  paralysis  and  the  stunning.  It  was  as  if  a  man 
struck  by  apoplexy  had  had  his  blood  let,  as  in  the 
primitive  surgery  of  old  days.  It  was  this  strong  flow 
of  it  that  restored  him  to  himself. 

"Oh,  my  soul,  my  soul,"  he  whispered,  "to  think 
that  you  have  borne  it  alone.  Thank  God,  that  is  over. 
But  you  cut  me  to  the  heart  in  not  telling  me.  I  didn't 
deserve  that  from  you." 

His  lip  quivered,  his  eyes  were  brimming  with  tears 
that  soon  ran  over,  and  it  was  she  who  kissed  them  away. 
Just  for  that  moment  she  could  not  help  it.  "  Be  sensible, 
not  kiss  anybody" — the  words  of  the  doctor  sounded 
like  gibberish.  Hugh  was  crying,  the  doctor  did  not 
allow  for  that  contingency.  Nothing  in  the  world 
mattered  at  this  moment  but  that  she  should  comfort 
him.  He  had  never  cried  before,  as  far  as  she  knew,  and 
the  sobs  came  from  so  deep  within  him. 

"Oh,  if  it  was  selfish,  forgive  me,"  she  said;  "but  it 
was  not  thus  that  I  meant  it.  I  did  want  one  week  more 
so  much,  my  darling,  one  week  to  crown  all  the  others." 

She  had  told  Peggy  that  she  meant  quite  distinctly 
to  lie  to  Hugh,  to  tell  him  that  Sir  Thomas  had  recom- 
mended her  to  go  to  Munich.  '  But  quite  suddenly  she 
found  she  could  not  lie  to  him.  No  question  arose  in 
her  mind  as  to  the  morality  of  telling  the  truth  or  the 
immorality  of  falsehood.  It  was  not  a  moral  choice 
that  was  now  flashed  before  her,  it  was  a  mere  question  of 
what  was  possible  and  what  was  not. 

"It  has  crowned  the  others,"  she  said,  "and  I  am 
exultant  that  we  have  got  it.  Oh,  Hughie,  we  have 
captured  this  week,  snatched  it  from  all  the  foolish 
physicians  who  forbade  it.  Yes,  dear,  my  selfishness 
went  as  far  as  that.  He  told  me  not  to  come.  So  I 


326  SHEAVES 

came,  and  I-am  more  glad  than  I  can  say.  He  told  me 
also  to  be  sensible,  not  to  kiss  anybody.  I  have 
disobeyed  him  there  too.  So  forgive  me  for  both." 

Hugh  had  drawn  his  chair  close  to  hers. 

"Oh,  forgive,  forgive,"  he  said.  "What  word  is  that 
between  us?" 

"No;  it  is  a  foolish  word  from  me  to  you,"  she  said; 
"but  understand  then.  Can't  you  understand?  Just 
now  you  wondered  at  me  for  not  understanding  what 
you  said  I  had  done.  I  wonder  at  you  now  for  not 
understanding  what  joy  your  joy  has  been  to  me.  Why, 
it  is  mine,  and  more  mine  because  it  is  yours.  Hughie, 
though  I  asked  you  just  now  to  forgive,  I  tell  you  that 
I  am  delighted  with  what  I  have  done.  It  is  like — 
a  dog  that  has  stolen  a  bone,  and  looks  deprecating. 
All  the  time  he  licks  his  lips.  He  has  had  it;  it  tasted 
so  good,  and  though  he  may  be  beaten  subsequently,  his 
mouth  still  waters  at  the  remembrance.  Mine  does. 
There  would  have  been  a  shadow  over  this  week  if  you 
had  known." 

"There  would  never  have  been  this  week  at  all," 
he  broke  in. 

"Oh,  don't  be  too  sure — I  am  very  obstinate  when 
I  want  a  thing." 

Yes;  she  was  comforting  him  already,  and  though 
he  did  not  know  it,  she  did.  He  thought  that  she  spoke 
but  of  the  past,  she  knew  that  she  was  already  bracing 
him  for  the  future.  And  his  smile  assured  her.  And 
gently,  cunningly,  she  continued  to  build  out  of  the  past. 

"Oh,  Hughie,"  she  said,  "it  was  the  funniest  scene — 
dear  old  Sir  Thomas  told  me,  and  then  we  called  Peggy 
in.  and  I  said,  'Oh,  Peggy,  I've  got  consumption.'  And 
then  I  burst  out  laughing,  and  Peggy  laughed  too.  We 
sat  and  roared." 


SHEAVES  327 

Hugh  frowned  at  this. 

"Peggy  knew?"  he  asked.  "She  lied  to  me,  then; 
that  is  what  it  conies  to.  She  told  me  that  she  laughed 
when  you  told  her  what  Sir  Thomas  said  was  the  matter 
with  you,  so  that  I  might  think  it  was  nothing." 

"Yes,  dear,"  said  Edith,  "she  had  already  promised 
not  to  interfere.  If  she  had — well,  not  equivocated  to 
you,  she  would  have  lied  to  me.  It  was  very  awkward 
for  her,  but  she  did  her  best.  It  was  a  conspiracy " 

"Directed  against  me." 

"Yes,  darling;  directed  against  you.  I  have  already 
asked  your  forgiveness,  you  know." 

Hugh  looked  round  the  room  with  mute,  appealing 
eyes. 

"Is  it  real?"  he  asked.     "Is  this  horror  real?" 

Edith  said  nothing.  He  was  not  facing  it  yet  with 
his  best  self;  Hugh  had  better  than  that  to  give.  She 
knew  it  would  come,  for  it  was  there.  And  the  infinite 
pity  of  love  waited  for  it.  When  it  came  it  would  prove 
to  have  been  worth  waiting  for.  Soon  he  would  speak 
words  which  came  from  her  own  heart.  He  would  say 
what  she  felt,  and  more,  what  she  sought  to  feel.  There 
was  more  in  Hugh  than  was,  so  to  speak,  accessible, 
unlocked  in  her  own  soul.  The  love-key  would  open  it. 
All  the  wordless  sensations,  impressions,  strivings,  of 
this  week  when  she  had  been  alone  with  her  secret  knowl- 
edge were  in  him.  The  winter  sun  of  the  comfort  she 
could  bring  to  him  would  be  blinded  by  a  brighter  light. 
It  was  he  who  was  going  to  unveil  it.  Often  and  often, 
so  she  almost  hoped,  in  the  weeks  and  months  that  lay 
before  them,  she  would  have  to  light  his  candle  of 
patience  and  hope.  But  all  the  time  his  sun  would 
light  her  path. 

But  at  this  moment  poor  Hugh  wanted  his  candle. 


328  SHEAVES 

"What  did  he — what  did  Sir  Thomas  tell  you?"  he 
asked  brokenly. 

"That  I  had  an  excellent  chance.  That  I  was  the 
sort  of  person  who  got  well.  That  I  was  going  to  get 
well.  That  when  I  got  well,  I  should  be  younger  and 
better  than  now.  I  liked  that,  Hugh.  We  shall  be 
more  of  an  age,  so  they  say." 

"Oh,  that  silly  joke,"  said  he. 

"Yes,  it  will  be  knocked  on  the  head,  and  I  shall  put 
cold-cream  on  your  venerable  nose  and  give  you  your 
gruel,  and  then  go  downstairs  again  to  play  with  the 
children,  when  I  have  tucked  you  up  in  bed  and  shut  the 
window  for  fear  you  should  catch  cold.  It  will  be  fun." 

"Don't,  don't,"  said  Hugh. 

But  she  was  comforting  him. 

"That  will  not  be  in  the  immediate  future,  dear," 
she  said;  "and  I  want  to  tell  now  about  the  immediate 
future.  Now,  don't  gasp.  To-morrow  I  must  go  to 
Davos.  I  have  looked  out  the  train  already;  we  go — 
because  you  are  coming  too — we  go  to  a  place  called 
Landquart,  and  up  from  there.  I  promised  Sir  Thomas 
to  do  that,  Hugh.  I  have  to  stop  there  till  I  am  well; 
it  comes  to  that,  practically." 

Then  suddenly  Edith  found  she  wanted  comfort  her- 
self, comfort  on  the  lower  level,  so  to  speak,  not  from 
the  high  level. 

"Ah,  that  is  dreadful,"  she  cried;  "it  may  be  a  year, 
it  may  be  more,  before  I  see  our  dear  home  again,  and 
the  down  all  gray  and  green  above  it,  and  the  garden 
and  the  water-meadows,  and — and  Mrs.  Owen,"  she 
added,  comforting  herself  by  that  eternal  comforter 
of  humour.  But  she  slipped  out  of  its  hands  again. 

"Oh,  Hughie,"  she  said,  giving  way  to  the  pathos  of 
little  things,  which  are  so  big,  "I  love  our  home  so;  it 


SHEAVES  329 

was  all  so  dear  and  pleasant  and  cheery.  And  you 
sang  your  exercises  in  our  room,  and  I  added  up  books 
in  another,  and  the  gales  bugled  outside.  Or  it  was 
summer,  and  the  miracle  of  motherhood  came  to  me. 
And  afterward  you  and  Daisy  and  Jim,  all  you  children, 
dressed  up,  and — and  we  played  Tom  Tiddler's  Ground, 
and  Jim  caught  me,  and  there  was  blood  on  my 
handkerchief.  That  is  all  over." 

Though  here  it  was  the  lower  level  of  comfort  that 
she  required,  it  was  something  of  the  high  level  that  met 
her.  Swift  as  a  spurred  horse,  Hugh  answered  to  this. 

"  Over?  What  are  you  thinking  of  ? "  he  said.  "  Noth- 
ing is  over.  Why,  it  is  just  because  we  have  lived  those 
divine  days  that  they  are  not  over.  They  are  here; 
we  have  them  now.  They  make  us.  We  won't  look 
back;  there  is  no  need,  for  all  that  you  say  is  past  is 
present,  bone  of  our  bone,  and  the  flesh  on  it.  You 
know  that.  'Days  that  are  no  more,'  as  that  silly  poem 
says.  There  are  no  days  that  are  no  more,  except  the 
days  we  don't  remember.  All  we  remember  and  rejoice 
in  are  the  days  that  have  been  and  are,  the  days  that 
live,  and  the  things  that  live,  the  things  that  get  en- 
twined with  love,  so  that  the  down  above  Chalkpits  and 
the  river  and  the  water-meadows  are  all  here,  here  with 
you  and  me.  How  can  you  be  so  foolish  as  to  think 
otherwise?" 

It  was  Edith  again  who  was  silent.  As  the  angel 
moved  the  waters  of  Bethesda,  so  some  angel,  she  knew, 
had  moved  Hugh's  soul,  and  the  love-key  was  already 
turning  in  the  wards  of  her  own  locked  chambers. 
Already,  n  his  last  words,  the  door  was  ajar,  a  chink  of 
light  shone  out.  Sorrow,  compassion,  had  enlightened 
him;  it  was  his  very  weakness  that  gave  him  strength. 

He  sat  upright,  facing  her,  and   though   his  mouth 


330  SHEAVES 

still  quivered  and  his  eyes  were  wet,  those  signs  came 
from  another  source. 

"But  you  don't  think  otherwise!"  he  said.  "It  is 
the  past  that  makes  the  future  for  us.  It  was  we  who 
made  us  love  the  dear  home,  and  it  is  we  who  will  make 
us  love  Davos,  and,  if  need  be,  Landquart,  just  as 
devotedly.  We  make  the  place  we  live  in." 

The  door  swung  wide  now. 

"And  whatever  comes,  God  bless  it,"  said  Hugh. 
"Oh,  soul  talks  to  soul,  does  it  not,  now?  If  I  get  run 
over  by  a  train  it  is  all  right.  If  you  don't  get  better, 
if  you  die,  it  is  all  right.  It  must  be,  because  we  are 
lovers,  you  and  I.  There  is  nothing  more  than  that  in 
the  world.  Why  should  there  be?  What  could  there 
be?  Supposing  the  world  was  all  a  hideous  joke, 
and  we  little,  people  were  just  puppets  on  a  stage  that 
meant  nothing,  what  then?  We  still,  you  and  I  now, 
feel  as  if  it  was  real.  We  can't  ask  more  than  that,  for 
there  is  nothing  more  to  ask.  It  is  real  to  us.  We 
snap  our  fingers  at  cancer,  consumption,  fever,  all  that 
people  make  statistics  about.  Who  cares?  Those 
things  are  the  unreal  things." 

Hugh's  voice  dropped  suddenly ;  till  now  it  had  been 
almost  song.  But  now  it  became  husky  and  dim. 

"But  the  down  above  the  house  is  real,"  he  said, 
"since  it  was  there  that  you  told  me  of  Andrew  Robb. 
And  the  garden  seat  is  real,  because  you  sat  there  and 
cried.  And,  to  be  egotistic,  the  nursery  at  Cookham 
is  real,  because — well,  because  Daisy  wouldn't  go  to 
sleep.  Moth  and  rust  cannot  corrupt  those  things. 
Thieves  cannot  steal  anything  that  is  worth  stealing, 
whatever  form  the  thieves  take.  They  may  take  many 
forms,  illness,  disease.  Oh,  Edith!" 

The   inevitable   restriction   bound   the   human   soul. 


SHEAVES  331 

Reach  out  as  we  may  toward  the  infinite,  toward  what 
we  know  is  true  and  real,  and  indeed  concerns  us,  yet 
the  fact  that  we  are  men  and  women  living  on  this  earth 
and  bound  bodily  by  the  finite  laws  of  time  and  space, 
imposes  a  similar  limitation  on  the  spirit,  else  it  would 
burst  its  bonds.  And  such  is  the  inevitable  irony  of 
things,  this  reaction,  this  tweak  at  the  rope  which  binds 
us  to  earth,  brings  about  a  fall  more  peremptory  and 
convincing  in  proportion  to  the  height  to  which  tha 
fluttering  soul  has  soared.  And  with  the  cry,  "Oh, 
Edith,"  poor  Hugh  came  back  to  earth  with  a  thump 
that  was  unreal  perhaps,  compared  to  the  realities  of 
which  he  had  just  spoken,  but  was  still  a  terribly  good 
imitation  of  reality.  And  as  with  jugglers  some  flaming 
torch  is  tossed  to  and  fro,  never  extinguished,  but  burn- 
ing ever  brighter  from  its  swift  passage,  so  Edith  held 
the  light  to  him  now. 

"Ah,  Hughie,"  she  said,  "you  got  there,  then:  you 
got  to  the  home  of  our  souls.  You  showed  me  beautiful 
things.  But  it  can't  always  be  equally  real  to  us. 
There  must  come  discouraging  times,  times  when  our 
patience  burns  dim,  and  even  hope  perhaps  burns  dim. 
And  it  is  then,  dear,  that  you  will  help  us  both  so  much 
just  by  being  yourself,  by  laughing,  by  talking  nonsense, 
by  being  young  and  foolish.  Promise  me  that  you  will 
keep  that  up." 

The  great,  grave  supreme  moment  she  knew  had 
passed:  Hugh  had  soared  up  to  give  to  this  dreadful 
blow  that  had  come  upon  him  and  her  the  welcome 
which  was  worthiest  of  him,  and  she  was  wise  to  remind 
him,  though  indeed  he  knew  it,  that  it  was  impossible 
to  expect  that  he  could  remain  always  in  those  high 
places.  Reaction,  despondency,  even  despair,  was  sure' 
to  come  to  them,  and  the  full  realisation  of  things  as  he 


332  SHEAVES 

had  seen  them  then  was  not  always  at  hand:  the  open 
vision  could  not  stand  open  always.  But  the  brave 
little  weapons  of  every  day  were  there. 

She  looked  at  him  gravely. 

"Promise  me  that,"  she  repeated. 

"I  will  do  my  best,"  he  said. 

"And  that  is  very  good,  dear.  Why,  Hughie,  it  is 
nearly  two!  I  must  go  to  bed  at  once,  and  so  must  you." 

But  she  still  held  his  hands  in  hers. 

"Thank  you,  my  darling,  for  Tristan  to-night,"  she 
said,  "and  thank  you  for  the  huge  success  you  made 
of  my  little  treat.  Thank  you  for  love,  dear,  and  your 
courage,  and — and  all  that  you  are  to  me,  which  no 
tongue  can  tell." 

She  paused  a  moment. 

"It  has  been  perfect,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

PEGGY  hurt  herself  very  much  this  time,  and, 
having  got  up,  slid  gingerly  on  both  skates  across 
to  the  bench  where  Hugh  was  studying  a  treatise  on 
the  difficult  art. 

"Press  the  left  shoulder  back,"  he  said  aloud,  "while 
pressing  the  master-hip  forward.  Hullo,  Peggy!  I 
say,  which  is  the  master-hip?  Is  it  the  hip  of  the 
unemployed  or  the  other?  You  seem  to  be  in  pain." 

"I  have  hurt  myself  more  than  anybody  was  ever 
hurt,"  said  Peggy.  "  I  fell  on  all  my  knees." 

"  I  know  it  does  shake  one  up,  doesn't  it? "  said  Hugh 
with  odious  calmness.  "I  wish  you  would  just  look  at 
my  unemployed  a  moment." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  asked  Peggy. 

"As  if  you  couldn't  see!"  said  Hugh  scornfully.  "I 
am  going  to  make  the  turn  just  opposite  you,  and  I  want 
you  to  watch  my  left  leg." 

Hugh  skated  some  distance  away,  and,  with  glorious 
disregard  of  limb  if  not  of  life,  put  himself  on  to  the 
inside-back,  and,  while  travelling  at  express  speed,  made 
a  desperate  attempt  to  turn.  He  sat  on  the  ice  for  a 
little  while  after  that. 

"Your  left  leg  went  over  your  head,"  said  Peggy, 
who  owed  him  one,  "otherwise,  and  if  you  hadn't  fallen 
down,  it  would  have  been  a  beauty.  Get  up,  Hugh, 
and  come  and  sit  here  for  a  little.  Oh,  I  should  like 
to  sing!" 

"Don't  let  me  stop  you,"  said  Hugh  politely. 

"I  won't.  But  I  shall  sing  inside  so  that  you  won't 

333 


334  SHEAVES 

hear  me.  Was  there  ever  such  a  morning?  Oh,  thank 
God  for  Davos!" 

"Amen  to  that,"  said  Hugh. 

Peggy,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  only  a  few  minutes  ago 
nobody  had  ever  been  hurt  so  much,  gave  a  huge  sigh 
of  content,  breathing  in  a  gallon  of  the  frozen  sunny  air, 
and  giving  it  out  again  in  a  great  puff  as  of  smoke.  All 
round  them  rose  the  white  snow-clad  hills,  rising  from 
shoulder  to  peak  of  glistening,  dazzling  surfaces.  Just 
opposite  and  above  them  stretched  the  long  single  street 
of  Davos,  with  its  rows  of  big  hotels,  tailing  off  to  the 
right  into  scattered  houses  and  chalets,  and  among 
them  she  could  just  see  the  house  where  she  was  staying 
now  with  Edith  and  Hugh  and  Daisy,  standing  high 
above  Davos-Platz,  with  broad  wooden  balconies,  and 
front  turned  southward  toward  the  blaze  of  the  sun. 
Above  the  village  hung  little  thin  blue  streamers  of  smoke 
from  the  fires,  but  these  were  scarcely  visible,  for  it 
seemed  as  if  nothing  smoky  or  foggy  could  live  long  in 
this  miraculous  air.  Above  the  village  stretched  black 
blots  and  clumps  of  pine- wood,  from  off  which  the  snow 
had  melted  and  fallen,  as  the  leaves  were  warmed  with 
the  in-striking  of  the  sun;  above  that  again  rose  the 
peaks  and  spurs  of  the  heaven-seeking  hills.  And  over 
all  stretched  an  incredible  sky,  bluer  than  the  mind 
could  otherwise  conceive  which  had  not  seen  it,  more 
crystalline  than  glass,  and  as  untainted  as  the  snow  it 
looked  upon.  And,  shining  there,  was  the  keynote  of 
the  whole,  the  huge  golden  sun,  divinity  made  visible, 
enough  to  turn  the  sourest  Puritan  into  a  Parsee.  Sun, 
hot,  unveiled  sun,  and  the  cleanness  and  purity  of  fros-t. 
That  was  Davos.  Davos  meant  a  great  deal  to  Peggy 
just  now;  it  meant  all  to  Hugh. 

He  and  Edith  had  come  straight  here  after  Munich, 


SHEAVES  335 

before  the  snow  fell,  and  privately  Hugh  thought  he  had 
never  seen  so  dreadful  and  dingy  a  place.  The  summer 
had  been  very  hot,  and  where  now  the  ineffable  whiteness 
of  the  snow  was  spread,  making  the  eye  to  dance  and  the 
heart  to  be  glad,  there  stretched  long  weary  spaces  of 
faded  green.  And  the  worst  of  it  was  that  it  reminded 
them  both  in  some  distorted  homesick  manner  of  the 
down  above  Chalkpits.  But  the  down  above  Chalkpits 
was  to  them,  even  as  Hugh  had  said,  the  first  act  of  the 
love-duet,  where  Edith  had  told  him  who  was  Andrew 
Robb,  whereas  the  gray-yellow  stretches  of  mountain- 
side here  were,  so  to  speak,  the  walls  and  windows  of  a 
sickroom.  Then  had  come  rain,  dreary,  unremitting 
rain,  when  the  heavens  were  shrouded,  and  a  tiring, 
enervating  wind  called  Fohn,  blew  out  of  the  south- 
west. And  the  very  interesting  fact  that  the  word 
Fohn  was  undoubtedly  a  corruption  of  the  Latin  Favo- 
nius  did  not  seem  to  make  it  any  better.  Also  they  could 
not  find  a  suitable  house. 

There  was  worse  than  that.  The  invalid  life  that 
Edith  had  to  lead  was  an  iron  hand  upon  them  both. 
She  who  had  been  so  active,  so  indefatigable,  had  to 
lie  down  most  of  the  day,  out  in  a  slightly  leaky  balcony, 
and  watch  the  cloud-shroud  over  the  hills,  and  the  thick- 
ruled  streaks  of  rain.  She  had  to  take  her  temperature 
and  enter  it  on  a  chart;  she  had  to  adopt  all  the  name- 
less little  devices  of  the  illness  from  which  she  suffered. 
To  her  it  was  all  hateful  to  her  pride,  to  him  it  was  a 
degradation  that  she  should  have  to  suffer  in  these  mean 
little  ways.  She,  always  splendid  but  always  rebellious 
against  the  surrender  to  ailments,  could  scarcely  bear 
that  Hugh  should  see  her  thus.  But  slowly,  by  patience 
and  by  habit,  the  first-fruits  of  patience,  she  had  grown 
used  to  it.  Yet  she  felt  at  the  end  of  the  first  three 


336  SHEAVES 

weeks  that  if  she  had  known  how  horrible  it  was  going 
to  be,  she  would  almost  have  refused  to  come  here  at  all, 
have  died  standing  and  defiant,  rather  than  fight  her 
foe  by  these  mean  submissions.  Also  for  the  first  fort- 
night the  disease  certainly  attacked  her  more  fiercely 
than  before.  Often  she  had  felt  tired  at  Munich,  but 
not  till  now  did  she  really  know  what  mere  tiredness 
could  mean.  She  went  to  bed  tired,  but  awoke  to  an 
infinitely  greater  degree  of  fatigue.  Physical  pain  she 
had  known  before,  but  never  had  pain  so  undermined 
her  as  this.  Then  once  she  had  another  return  of 
haemorrhage,  and  Hugh  had  sat  by  her  while  a  servant 
ran  for  the  doctor,  sponging,  wiping.  .  .  .  She 
longed  to  tell  him  to  go,  to  tell  him  that  she  would  so 
infinitely  sooner  be  alone.  But  he  could  not  have  borne 
that.  Also  she  could  not  speak. 

Yet  in  spite  of  the  fiercer  onslaught  of  the  disease, 
in  spite  of  the  haemorrhage,  in  spite  of  the  dreadful 
fatigue,  she  felt  that  deep  down  somewhere,  so  deep 
that  it  showed  as  yet  no  surface-sign,  she  was  better  at 
the  end  of  those  first  three  weeks.  She  could  not  tell 
how;  indeed,  she  had  never  felt  so  ill,  yet  there  was, 
so  to  speak,  a  little  raft  of  recovery  beginning  to  form. 
Through  hours  of  helplessness  she  felt  it  forming,  and 
in  spite  of  bad  reports,  gently  told  her,  she  knew  it  to  be 
so.  Foundations  have  to  be  dug,  so  that  a  house  may 
arise,  and  the  masons  and  builders  have  to  go  down 
that  they  may  build  up.  It  was  thus  that  she  felt  it. 

Then  came  a  change.  Rain  ceased,  and  snow  began. 
For  four  days  it  snowed  without  cessation,  and  still 
she  lay  out  on  her  balcony,  Hugh  sitting  by  her,  and 
rising  now  and  again  to  shake  the  fallen  flakes  off  the 
rug  that  covered  her.  And  gradually  through  those 
four  days  they  both  began  to  be  conscious  of  the  change. 


SHEAVES  337 

It  was  very  distant  at  first,  and  very  faint,  and  it  was 
through  the  nostril  even  more  than  through  the  eye 
which  now  saw,  though  veiled  in  the  falling  curtain  of 
snow,  the  changed  aspect,  that  it  revealed  itself.  Some- 
thing cold  and  clean  was  coming,  the  stale  odour  of  dried 
grass  had  gone,  and  there  was  filtering  into  the  air  the 
odour  of  nothing  at  all,  the  absence  of  odour,  the  nega- 
tive smell  of  the  absence  of  smelling  things.  During 
these  four  days,  too,  Edith  lost  her  temper  at  picquet, 
a  game  that  occupied  much  of  their  evenings.  Hugh 
hailed  that  secretly,  privately,  as  he  would  have  hailed 
an  angel  from  Heaven.  She  had  been  utterly  apathetic 
before ;  they  had  played  but  to  pass  the  hours. 

Then,  still  while  the  clean,  sweet  snow  was  falling,  he 
found  a  house  that  might  suit  them.  For  days  before 
they  had  constantly  talked  over  the  sort  of  house  they 
wanted,  and  for  days  it  appeared  to  be  a  matter  of  abso- 
lute indifference  to  Edith.  To-night,  however,  it  did  not. 

"Oh!  but  how  stupid  of  you,  Hughie!"  she  had  said. 
"Why,  of  course,  you  ought  to  have  gone  to  see  the 
kitchen.  All  houses  are  uninhabitable  unless  the  ser- 
vants are  comfortable.  We  had  far  better  be  in  a  hotel 
than  in  a  house  where  the  kitchen  is  a  coal-cellar! " 

"I'm  sorry!"  said  Hugh.  "I'll  go  and  look  at  it 
again  to-morrow." 

"Yes,  but  you  probably  don't  know  a  good  kitchen 
from  a  bad  one,"  said  Edith  sharply. 

It  was  that  sort  of  thing  that  so  often  during  these 
weeks  made  his  heart  bleed.  He  knew — how  well  he 
knew — that  it  was  not  she  who  spoke,  but  only  this 
hideous  disease.  He  never  confused  the  one  with  the 
other,  for  he  knew  Edith  too  well  for  that.  All  these 
weeks  she  had  been  fighting  her  battle,  desperately, 
splendidly,  and  all  these  weeks  she  had  been  constantly 


338  SHEAVES 

impatient  with  him,  irritated  by  him.  And  quietly, 
proudly,  he  wore  that  like  a  decoration.  It  was  just 
because  she  loved  him  that  she  was  like  that  with  him. 
With  her  nurse,  whom  she  detested,  she  was  studiously, 
evenly  polite,  thanking  her  for  all  sorts  of  infinitesimal 
services,  hoping  she  was  net  tired,  fearing  to  disturb  her. 
But  Hugh  divined  the  cause  of  her  impatience  with  him, 
and  knew  that  she  divined  it  too. 

Then  swiftly  came  the  rest  of  the  heavenly  change. 
Edith,  utterly  weary,  had  gone  to  bed  one  night  while 
the  snow  still  fell,  and  Hugh,  not  long  after,  though  it 
was  still  early,  had  followed.  The  drowsiness  of  snow 
was  on  him  and  he  slept  heavily,  expecting  even  in  sleep 
to  awaken  to  that  numb,  torpid  pain  of  soul  that  had 
been  his  all  these  weeks.  But  he  did  not  wake  thus. 

It  was  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth.  Sun  and  frost 
had  entered.  Blue  weather. 

Trouble  had  passed,  and  joy  came  with  that  morning. 
It  came  in  all  manners,  big  and  small.  The  kitchen  of 
the  possible  house  proved  to  be  palatial.  Peggy,  by 
the  morning  post,  announced  that  she  and  Jim  and 
Daisy  would  all  come  out  for  Christmas.  And  Edith, 
so  she  said,  when  he  went  to  her,  felt  different. 

"Oh,  Hughie!  the  sun  has  come,"  she  said  as  he 
entered;  "and  how  good  the  air  smells.  I  don't  feel 
nearly  so  tired,  either." 

"And  that  is  the  top  of  the  morning,"  said  he. 

She  looked  at  him,  then  avoided  his  eye. 

"I  have  been  horrible  to  you  all  these  weeks,"  she 
said  quietly.  "I  knew  it  perfectly  well.  Have  I  hurt 
you,  Hughie?" 

That  was  one  of  the  bad  moments. 

"How  could  you  hurt  me?  he  asked.  "You  have 
never  hurt  me." 


SHEAVES  339 

She  still  did  not  look  at  him,  but  lay  with  her  cheek 
on  the  pillow.  She  felt  that  he  had  more  to  say,  though 
the  words  ceased. 

"Yes?"  she  said.     "Go  on." 

"Oh,  whenever  I  thought  you  hurt  me,  I  knew  at 
once  it  was  not  you,"  he  said. 

Then  she  looked  at  him. 

"No,  my  darling,  it  was  not,"  she  said.  "Do  try  to 
remember  that." 

"There  is  no  trying  and  no  remembering,"  he  said. 

It  was  on  that  morning  that  golden  days  began  again. 
Week  by  week  Edith  had  steadily  improved.  A  few 
little  set-backs  had  come,  but  still  the  tide  flowed.  All 
her  determination  to  get  well  had  come  back  to  her; 
her  will  was  no  longer  apathetic,  watching  the  course 
of  events,  but  active,  directing  them. 

And  to-day,  for  the  first  time,  by  permission,  she  was 
to  come  down  to  the  rink  where  Hugh  and  Peggy  sat, 
and  see  them  attempt  to  pass  the  skating-test  which 
would  admit  them  on  to  the  English  rink.  It  is  impos- 
sible to  say  to  whom — themselves,  Edith,  or  the  English 
community  in  general — their  passing  seemed  most 
important,  but  probably  to  them.  Daisy  was  coming 
up  for  judgment,  too,  but  it  was  quite  certain  that  she 
would  pass.  The  case  of  her  mother  and  uncle,  however 
was  far  more  open  to  doubt.  Peggy,  sycophantically, 
had  induced  Edith  to  ask  the  two  amiable  gentlemen, 
who  were  going  to  judge  their  capacity,  to  dinner  last 
night,  and  had  been  almost  loathsomely  fulsome  to 
them.  The  doors  of  Rye  House,  she  had  really  given 
them  to  understand,  starved  for  their  presence.  And 
must  the  unemployed  leg  be  absolutely  still?  If  she 
moved  it  ever  so  little  she  could  make  the  turn,  too 
beautifully.  .  ,  .  Oh!  yes  she  was  sure  that  Hugh 


340  SHEAVES 

would  be  only  too  honoured  to  sing  at  the  concert  at 
the  Belvedere  in  aid  of — oh,  quite  so,  the  Colonial 
Chaplaincy  Fund. 

"  Hugh,  Mr.  Simpkins,  who  is  going  to  judge  us 
to-morrow,  wants  you  to  sing  at  the  Belvedere,  and,  of 
course,  you  will.  Tuesday  night:  yes,  we  are  not  doing 
anything.  And  you  will  judge  us  at  half-past  twelve? 
that  will  suit  beautifully,  and  I  can  practise  first.  Half- 
past  twelve,  Hugh.  Bring  a  flask'of  brandy." 

So  now  on  this  momentous  morning,  and  in  spite  of 
the  ordeal  that  would  have  to  be  gone  through  at  twelve- 
thirty,  Peggy  drew  in  and  gave  out  the  long  breaths  of 
content.  There  was  no  doubt  that  Edith  was  much 
better;  a  week  ago  even  she  was  still  in  the  lying-down 
regime;  to-day  she  was  going  to  walk  to  the  rink,  observe 
their  antics,  lunch  with  them  there,  and  be  driven  home. 
She,  Peggy,  had  interviewed  the  doctor  herself  this 
morning.  It  was  all  as  good  as  it  could  be.  It  was 
better  even  than  the  doctor  had  hoped.  Her  weight 
had  gone  up,  her  general  health  had  improved,  vigour 
and  health  were  marching  on  the  high-road  toward 
her.  And  the  one  thing  that  they  had  to  be  careful 
about,  did  not  at  this  moment  trouble  Peggy.  Edith's 
heart  was  not  strong.  No,  there  was  nothing  organically 
wrong,  but  it  was  possible  that  some  lower  place  than 
Davos  might  be  as  good  for  her  lungs,  and  not  so  trying, 
so  stimulating  to  the  heart.  But  he  did  not  for  a  moment 
suggest  her  leaving  Davos.  A  place  that  had  already 
done  her  so  much  good  was  not  to  be  lightly  abandoned. 

Peggy  breathed  her  long  sighs,  and  fell  to  talking  of 
skating  again,  when  Hugh  had  recovered  from  his  rather 
complicated  fall. 

"Oh,  it  does  matter  so  much,"  she  said,  "and  Edith 
feels  it  matters  so  much.  She  wants  us  dreadfully  to 


SHEAVES  341 

pass  our  test.  Oh,  Hugh!  how  very  big  quite  little 
things  are.  It  will  really  make  her  happier  if  we  can  do 
these  things.  And  it  will  make  us  happier  too.  Do — 
do  be  serious.  I  am  going  to  do  outside  edge  back, 
quite  slowly  and  smoothly.  It  is  the  only  way." 

Hugh  was  content  to  sit  still  a  little  longer,  and  watch 
Peggy  skating  in  the  only  way.  Her  whole  face  and 
figure  altered  so  radically  when  she  was  skating,  as  to  be 
almost  unrecognisable.  She  naturally  stood  erect  and 
upright,  but  on  skates,  in  pursuance  of  "form,"  she 
became  stiff  er  than  the  Life  Guards;  she  was  cast  in 
iron  and  heroic  mould.  Her  face,  too,  pleasant  and 
humorous  in  the  affairs  of  everyday  life,  became  a  thing 
portentous,  grim,  determined,  inexorable.  She  had  been 
told  to  look  up,  to  hold  her  head  back  when  she  was 
skating,  and  in  pursuance  of  this  she  fixed  a  savage  and 
unrelenting  eye  on  the  unoffending  Belvedere  Hotel, 
as  if  she  was  going  to  command  its  instant  demolition. 
Then  when  a  crisis  approached,  when  the  turn  had  to 
be  made,  her  aspect  changed  again,  the  relentless 
expression  was  relaxed,  pity  and  terror  usurped  her  face. 
And,  the  crisis  being  successfully  surmounted,  a  look 
of  fathomless,  idiotic  joy  beamed  from  her.  Then  that 
faded  like  some  regretful  sunset,  and  grim  determination, 
the  inexorableness  of  Rhadamanthus,  again  reigned. 

He  watched  Peggy  a  little,  while  she  receded  into  the 
crowd  that  was  growing  thick  on  the  rink,  cutting,  or 
rather  not  being  able  to  recognise,  her  friends,  while 
employed  in  these  majestic  backward  manoeuvres,  and 
casting  glances  of  deep  withering  reproach  on  any  who 
came  near  her  sacred  person,  and  with  the  recession  of 
Peggy  other  matters  receded,  too,  till  he  was  left  alone 
with  the  only  matter  that  really  had  value  in  his  eyes. 
And  this  morning  for  the  first  time,  he  felt  safe  in  letting 


342  SHEAVES 

himself  go,  in  abandoning  himself  to  the  ecstasy  that  the 
removal  of  anxiety  brought  him.  Again  and  again, 
after  these  first  three  dreadful  weeks  were  passed,  the 
doctor  had  given  him  excellent  reports;  she  was  going 
on  as  well  as  possible,  but  not  till  to-day  had  Hugh  felt 
himself  be  comforted.  He  had  always  been  prepared, 
at  the  back  of  his  mind,  for  bad  news,  for  the  information 
that  she  was  not  making  progress,  and  none  knew  but 
he  what  a  dreadful  uphill  task  had  been  his,  in  perform- 
ing the  promise  he  had  made  to  Edith  on  the  night  at 
Munich  when  she  told  him,  and  in  being  gay,  being 
foolish,  and  natural.  Sometimes  it  had  seemed  to  him 
that  she  must  guess  how  hideously  hollow  his  apparent 
high  spirits  were,  but  a  letter  she  wrote  to  Peggy,  shortly 
before  the  latter  came  out,  which  Peggy  had  told  him  of, 
was  his  reward.  In  it  Edith  had  expressed  the  removal 
of  her  own  great  anxiety  that  Hugh  would  find  nothing 
to  do,  and  feel  that  the  place  was  intolerable.  But, 
so  she  wrote,  it  was  not  so.  Hugh  had  gone  quite  mad 
about  winter-sports,  and  spent  ecstatic  days  in  trying 
to  break  his  limbs  over  some  apparatus  for  sliding, 
whether  over  skis  or  toboggans  or  skates  it  seemed 
to  make  no  difference.  The  point  clearly  was  to  cripple 
yourself  in  some  way.  He  was  keeping  up  his  singing, 
too,  with  really  commendable  diligence,  and  a  decent 
Steinway  had  at  length  arrived.  He  was  wonderfully 
cheerful,  too;  he  did  her  no  end  of  good.  Peggy  had 
stopped  there  and  not  told  him  what  the  letter  went  on 
about — Edith's  bitter  pathetic  reproaches  against  her- 
self for  the  unfathomable  depression  that  she  so  often 
suffered  under,  and  which  made  her  often  so  cross  and 
irritable  to  Hugh.  "  But  I  think  my  darling  knows 
it  isn't  me,"  she  had  finished.  But  that  was  not  for 
Hugh  to  hear. 


SHEAVES  343 

But  to-day  for  the  first  time  in  all  these  weeks,  he 
felt  he  could  be  cheerful,  uproarious  even,  out  of  his 
own  self,  because  his  spirit  wished  to  laugh  and  sing. 
"Immense,  almost  incredible  improvement,"  had  been 
the  report,  and  to  endorse  that,  she  was  allowed  to  walk 
down  to  the  rink,  a  matter  of  nearly  a  mile.  Many 
months,  as  he  well  knew,  given  that  all  went  well,  must  lie 
between  her  and  complete  recovery,  and  it  was  to-day  for 
the  first  time  that  Hugh  had  let  himself  even  look  forward 
to  that,  to  contemplate  it  at  all.  Even  now  he  could  not 
look  at  it  long,  and  he  had  to  look  at  it,  so  to  speak,  with 
half-closed  eyes,  for  it  dazzled  him.  But  it  was  within 
the  field  of  his  vision,  remote  perhaps,  but  shining. 

But  how  different  it  made  everything  else  look! 
Everything  was  enlightened;  even  Ambrose,  who 
approached  him  at  this  moment  on  skates  about  four 
sizes  too  large  and  black  goggles  perched  on  his  inquiring 
nose,  was  welcome. 

"  I  came  down  to  see  you  and  Aunt  Peggy  and  Daisy 
skate  for  the  English  club,"  said  this  incomparable 
youth;  "and  I  do  so  hope  you  will  all  get  in.  It  will 
make  me  so  happy,  Uncle  Hugh.  And  I  am  happy 
already  because  papa  told  me  that  Aunt  Edith  was  ever 
so  much  better.  Aren't  you  pleased,  too?" 

"Yes,  old  boy,"  said  Hugh;  "and  why  don't  you 
practise  and  get  in  the  English  club,  too?  Daisy  is  sure 
to  pass,  and  she's  younger  than  you,  isn't  she?" 

Ambrose  put  his  head  a  little  sideways,  as  he  did  when 
he  was  saying  his  catechism,  or  when  thoughts  of  excep- 
tional nobility  occurred  to  him. 

"Well,  I  have  thought  about  it,"  he  said;  "but,  you 
see,  I  am  sure  it  has  been  a  great  expense  to  papa  to 
bring  me  out  here,  and  he  never  would  have  come  out 
himself  if  I  hadn't  been  ill,  and  I  should  have  to  pay  a 


344  SHEAVES 

subscription,  shouldn't  I,  if  I  passed?  Papa  isn't  going 
in  for  it  either,  and,  of  course,  he  could  pass  as  easy  as 
anything  if  he  tried,  couldn't  he?" 

"Oh!  that's  all  right,  then,"  said  Hugh,  neglecting 
this  last  topic.  "I'll  pay  your  subscription  for  you, 
if  you  get  through." 

Ambrose  clapped  his  hands  together — he  had  caught 
it  from  Mrs.  Owen — and  forgetting  that  he  was  on  skates 
tried  to  jump  in  the  air  to  show  his  joy.  He  fell  down 
instead,  but  even  at  the  moment  of  contact  continued 
to  talk  in  his  penetrating  treble. 

"Oh,  thank  you,  Uncle  Hugh!"  he  cried.  "How 
kind  everybody  is  to  me !  I  shall  go  and  practise  at  once. 
Oh,  my  spectacles  have  fallen  off!  Would  you  please 
give  them  me,  as  I  promised  papa  never  to  look  at  any- 
thing out-of-doors  without  them,  so  I  must  shut  my  eyes 
till  I  have  them  on  again." 

Canon  Alington  and  Ambrose  had  been  here  a  fort- 
night, for  the  Canon  had  long  wanted  to  spend  a  winter 
in  Switzerland,  and  the  fact  that  Ambrose,  who  had  been 
a  good  deal  pulled  down  by  nn  attack  of  scarlatina,  was 
advised  to  go  to  some  brrxing  place,  made  a  duty  of 
what  he  had  only  thought  of  as  a  pleasure.  He  himself, 
too,  so  Agnes  assured  him,  had  been  much  tried  by  inces- 
sant workand  a  very  rainy  autumn  in  England, and  remind- 
ing him  how  his  fortnight's  yachting  in  the  summer  had  set 
him  up,  she  urged  him  to  go  and  be  set  up  again.  In 
fact,  the  idea  ot  its  being  a  pleasure  at  all  had  long  faded 
from  his  memory.  Agnes  recommended  it  for  him, 
just  as  the  doctor  recommended  it  for  Ambrose.  It  was 
a  necessary  expense,  heavy,  no  doubt,  but  unavoidable. 
But  they  had  come  out  second-class  and  lived  on  the 
fifth  floor.  Also — it  really  seemed  providential — the 


SHEAVES  345 

resident  chaplain  at  Davos  had  been  taken  ill  a  fortnight 
ago,  and  Canon  Alington,  saying  that  he  had  gone  back 
to  his  own  curate-days,  had  taken  his  place  at  the  current 
stipend.  He  had  preached  last  Sunday,  taking  for  his 
text  "Oh,  ye  ice  and  snow,  bless  ye  the  Lord!"  Hugh, 
to  his  own  malicious  satisfaction,  had  guessed  what  the 
text  would  be,  and,  indeed,  betted  on  the  subject  with 
Peggy  (she  had  bet  on  "Oh,  ye  mountains  and  hills") 
before  it  was  given  out.  He  won  five  francs,  and  put 
them  in  the  offertory. 

So  Ambrose  retired  into  a  corner  to  practise  for  his 
test,  and  soon  Peggy  returned  on  her  majestic  outside- 
back.  She,  too,  saw  the  difference  in  Hugh  this  morn- 
ing, and  his  almost  solemn  joy  over  Ambrose's  conver- 
sation rang  true. 

"For  the  cream  of  it  is,"  said  Hugh,  "that  for  years 
and  years  the  admirable  Dick  has  swaggered  to  me  about 
his  skating,  because,  you  see,  there  have  been  no  frosts 
in  England.  Oh!  perhaps  that  is  unfair,  because  the 
first  day  he  came  out  here  he  paraded  the  rink  doing 
what  I  think  he  called  Dutch  roll.  Anyhow,  both  feet 
were  on  the  ice  simultaneously.  But  nobody  was  very 
much  struck;  here  they  prefer  skating  o.i  one  foot  at  a 
time,  you  see.  So  foolish!" 

Peggy  gave  a  long  sigh. 

"Oh,  Ice  and  Snow!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  beg  your 
pardon.  Go  on." 

"Well,  since  then  Ice  and  Snow  has  been  practising 
for  all  he's  worth,  in  sequestered  corners.  I  doubt  if  he 
thinks  about  parish  affairs  at  all,  and  the  dream  of  his 
life  is  to  get  into  the  English  club.  He  will  come  up 
as  soon  as  he  has  the  slightest  chance  of  passing,  if  not 
before.  But  I  feel  convinced  that  he  has  conveyed  to 
Ambrose  that  it  is  an  unnecessary  expense,  and  Ambrose 


346  SHEAVES 

has  told  me  that  he  thought  of  it  himself.  Aren't  they 
divine?" 

Peggy  got  up  at  once. 

"I  shall  go  and  talk  to  Ambrose  instantly,"  she 
said,  "and  find  out  whether  his  father  did  convey 
that  impression." 

"I  know  you  can  be  diplomatic,"  remarked  Hugh. 

She  returned  in  a  few  minutes. 

"Yes,  it  is  so,"  she  said.  "Ice  and  Snow  alluded  to 
expense,  and  said  that  the  English  rink  was  not  so  good 
as  the  public  one.  Oh,  Hugh,  if  only  he  goes  up  for  the 
test  after  that!" 

But  at  that  moment  Hugh  forgot  all  this;  he  forgot 
Peggy,  he  forgot  the  fatal  hour  of  half-past  twelve,  for 
somebody  waved  to  him  from  the  snow  bank  that  bound- 
ed the  rink.  He  clambered  awkwardly  up  the  wooden 
steps,  and  stamped  his  way  along  the  frozen  snow. 

"Ah,  but  this  is  good,"  he  cried,  "this  is  the  very  best. 
And  you've  walked  all  the  way?  And  you  are  not  tired? 
Are  you  sure  you  are  not  tired?" 

"Not  a  bit;  I've  enjoyed  it.  Oh,  Hugh,  it's  nearly 
half-past  twelve,  and  I  am  so  agitated.  You  must  get 
through.  Where's  Peggy?" 

Peggy  had  followed  Hugh  to  the  edge  of  the  ice. 

"Oh,  Edith,  how  splendid,"  she  cried,  "and  you  are 
just  in  time  to  see  us  all  ploughed.  Get  her  a  chair, 
Hugh,  on  the  edge  of  the  rink.  Oh,  here's  Daisy. 
Daisy,  you  little  fiend,  if  you  pass  and  I  don't,  I  shall 
stop  your  allowance  for  a  month." 

An  agitating  half-hour  followed.  Daisy,  to  do  her 
justice,  was,  if  possible,  more  anxious  that  her  mother 
should  pass  than  was  Peggy  herself,  and,  having  acquit- 
ted herself  triumphantly  before  the  judges,  and  sailed 
through  her  test,  endured  agonies  of  anxiety  as  Peggy 


SHEAVES  347 

wobbled  when  she  should  have  been  firm.  But  the 
grim  determination  of  her  face  never  varied,  and  she 
still  looked  skyward.  But  eventually  the  effort  of 
weeks,  and  a  perseverance  which  Robert  Bruce's  spider 
might  have  envied,  was  crowned,  and  she  and  Hugh 
emerged  victorious. 

Ah,  but  how  good  it  was,  Edith  felt,  to  see  the  others 
really  taking  this  wild  interest  in  little  things  again; 
how  good  also  to  take  it  herself.  Vitally  and  eagerly 
constituted  as  they  all  were,  it  was  like  them,  the  mo- 
ment that  good  news  came  about  that  which  was  nearest 
their  hearts  they  should  all  behave  in  this  perfectly 
childish  manner,  and  treat  this  skating  episode  (which 
for  this  very  reason  has  been  given  at  length)  as  if 
Eternal  Salvation  was  on  tap  at  the  English  rink,  to 
which,  through  much  tribulation,  Peggy  and  Hugh  had 
been  admitted.  There  was  no  make-believe  about  it 
to-day,  and  if  before  both  Peggy  and  Hugh  while  they 
rested  some  aching  limb  found  no  rest  for  the  ache  of 
their  hearts,  to-day  there  was  ache  neither  in  heart  nor 
limb;  all  was  forgotten  in  the  sun  of  Edith's  improve- 
ment. "Immense,  incredible  improvement!"  Hugh 
whispered  it  to  her  over  and  over  again  as  they  waited 
for  their  lunch  to  arrive  from  the  house.  And  in  the 
same  breath,  as  was  natural  to  his  youth,  he  told  her 
about  the  deep  machinations  of  Dick,  the  assumption 
of  Ambrose,  and  then  and  there  founded  an  Ambrose 
club.  Far  away,  too,  at  the  corner  of  the  public,  com- 
mon, lower  rink,  the  Canon's  manly  form  could  be  dis- 
cerned diligently  circling,  till  Hugh  could  bear  it  no 
longer  and  left  Edith,  ostensibly  to  ask  him  to  join 
them  at  lunch,  in  reality  to  patronise  him.  Ambrose 
was  looking  at  his  father  in  the  deepest  admiration,  and 
the  latter,  just  as  Hugh  came  up,  having  made  a  sudden 


348  SHEAVES 

involuntary  change  of  edge  (a  thing  he  had  been  trying 
to  do  voluntarily  for  days),  exclaimed — 

"Ah,  that's  it,  Ambrose.  That's  what  you  were  asking 
me  to  show  you.  Why,  here's  Hugh!  Well,  Hugh, 
joining  us  again  down  here?  Not  quite  fit  for  the  Olym- 
pian yet?" 

Hugh  could  not  resist  a  little  swagger.  He  was 
exalted. 

"Oh,  we  got  through  quite,  quite  easily,"  he  said; 
"all  of  us  in  fact.  Peggy,  Daisy,  and  I.  I  expect 
Ambrose  will  get  through  next." 

This  was  deep:  it  was  almost  fiendish.  Hugh  knew 
his  brother-in-law  was  practising  till  sleep  forsook  him 
at  night.  Dick  thought  that  he  was  equally  aware 
that  Hugh  could  have  no  notion  of  it,  since  Ambrose 
(so  properly)  had  mentioned  to  him  the  conversation 
about  expense  which  that  child  had  already  held  with 
Hugh. 

Canon  Alington  showed  an  eager  interest  in  this. 

"Ambrose  tells  me  you  have  been  good  enough  to 
promise  to  pay  his  subscription  if  he  passes,"  he  said. 
"Come,  Ambrose,  show  Hugh  what  you  can  do." 

Ambrose  could  not  do  anything  at  all,  and  his 
father  knew  it.  So  Dick,  with  an  eye  on  Hugh, 
showed  him  what  had  to  be  done.  He  displayed  a 
completely  accurate  knowledge  of  what  the  test  was, 
which  was  strange,  since  he  did  not  contemplate  going 
in  for  it.  But  his  practical  idea,  how  to  skate  it,  in  fact, 
was  rather  sketchy.  Hugh  hugged  himself  in  silence. 
So  often  had  Dick  told  him  exactly  how  all  sorts  of 
complicated  manoeuvres  had  to  be  done;  so  often  had 
he  wished  that  the  frost  might  hold  in  order  that  he  could 
have  a  day's  skating  with  Hugh,  and  just  put  him  in  the 
way  of  it!  But  Hugh  liked  his  brother-in-law  the  better 


SHEAVES  349 

for  it.  He  had  "humbugged"  (a  beautiful  word)  about 
his  skating.  That  was  human.  Ambrose  had  hum- 
bugged too  about  the  originality  of  his  idea  that  the 
question  of  expense  only  stood  between  Dick  and  the 
higher  rink.  Hugh  did  not  feel  any  marked  sympathy 
with  humbug,  but  he  was  much  in  sympathy  with  any- 
thing that  proved  that  Ambrose  was  human  too. 

"The  back  cross-roll  now,"  continued  Dick,  still 
addressing  his  son.  "  You  mtist  cross  your  feet  well!  " 

He  began  to  illustrate  it. 

"Ah,  my  toe  caught  then,"  he  said.  "  But  you  see  the 
idea.  Foot  well  behind,  well  across.  H'm!  I  must  have 
a  bit  taken  off  the  toes.  There,  that's  better,  isn't  it, 
Hugh!  That  would  do  for  the  Olympians,  wouldn't 
it?  I  think  that  is  the  hardest  part  of  the  test!" 

Hugh  had  not  yet  asked  his  brother-in-law  to  lunch 
with  them.  He  simply  could  not  interrupt  yet.  He 
did  not  know  Dick  could  be  so  gorgeous.  And  he  led 
him  on. 

"Yes,  that's  ripping,"  he  said.  "Why  didn't  you 
come  and  be  judged  with  us  this  morning?  Oh,  I  forgot; 
you  don't  want  to  join  the  English  rink.  Yes,  awfully 
good,  that  was." 

Dick  walked  straight  into  the  trap. 

"Then  there  is  the  three,  isn't  there,  on  each  foot?" 
he  asked.  "My  left  foot  bothers  me  rather.  Will 
you  just  look?" 

He  executed  this  in  a  slightly  diffuse  manner.  "Would 
that  pass,  do  you  think?"  he  asked. 

The  trap  closed  behind  him. 

"I  think  it  wants  a  little  more  practice,"  said  Hugh. 
"When  are  you  going  to  come  up?" 

"I  thought  about  Tuesday  next,"  said  Dick,  com- 
pletely off  his  guard. 


350  SHEAVES 

"  Oh,  I  should  think  it  would  be  all  right  by  then.  By 
the  way,  do  come  and  lunch  with  Edith  and  me. 
Ambrose  too,  of  course.  It's  a  sort  of  festal  occasion, 
you  see,  as  Peggy  and  I  have  both  passed." 

"And  Daisy,"  said  Ambrose.  He  hated  people  to  not 
think  of  other  people. 

"Oh,  everyone  knew  that  Daisy  would  pass,"  said 
Hugh.  "The  thank-offering  is  for  Aunt  Peggy  and  me. 
Let's  go.  I  think  Peggy  has  asked  the  whole  population 
to  lunch,  and  I  know  I  have.  There  probably  won't 
be  enough  to  eat." 

Dick  suddenly  started  forward  on  the  left  foot. 

"Just  look  a  moment,  Hugh,"  he  said. 

He  made  a  beautiful  turn,  and  a  severe,  unbending 
edge  after  it. 

"I  shall  go  up  for  the  test  on  Monday,"  he  said  with 
noble  courage.  "Ah,  by  the  way, '  I  slip,  I  slide,  I  gloom, 
I  glance.'  How  would  that  do  for  the  motto  of  a  skating 
club?  I  shall  certainly  form  a  skating  club  when  I  get 
back  to  Mannington.  You  and  I  will  be  there  to  coach 
the  beginners,  I  hope." 

"  I  think  'The  frequent  fall '  would  be  a  better  motto," 
said  Hugh. 

The  "festal  occasion"  was  extraordinarily  festive. 
The  whole  population,  as  Hugh  had  said,  appeared 
to  have  been  invited,  and  the  whole  population 
came.  And  the  spring,  the  origin  of  the  enjoyment  of 
everyone,  was  the  huge  enjoyment  of  Peggy  and  Hugh. 
And  the  spring  of  their  enjoyment  sat  at  the  head  of  the 
table.  She  was  better,  better,  much  better,  incredibly 
better.  It  was  no  wonder  that  mirth  abounded.  For 
mirth  is  more  infectious  than  any  disease,  and  Hugh 
and  Peggy  scattered  it.  And  they  had  passed  their 
test  and  the  sun  shone,  and  it  was  hotter  now  than  it 


SHEAVES  351 

had  ever  been,  and  a  great  frost  was  coming  to-night 
which  made  the  day  so  beautiful.  And  Edith  was 
better,  incredibly  better.  It  always  came  back  to  that. 
It  was  from  that  that  the  mirth  sprang. 

And  Edith?  There  she  sat,  pleasant,  fine,  less 
boisterous  than  her  husband  or  her  sister,  but  happy 
beyond  all  words.  She  saw  now  the  difference  that 
had  come  to  Hugh.  For  days  and  days  he  had  been 
uniformly  cheerful,  uniformly  boyish,  with  pleasure  in 
the  snow,  with  pleasure  in  the  contrivances  for  limb- 
breaking,  but  never  had  he  been  like  this.  When  he 
was  silent  (which  was  rare)  he  sparkled,  when  he  spoke 
he  shone.  She  knew  well  what  had  caused  that;  not 
the  skating,  not  anything  else,  but  she.  How  well  he 
had  acted,  too,  through  these  weeks.  Again  and 
again,  as  when  she  wrote  to  Peggy,  she  had  believed 
he  was  enjoying  himself,  not  making  the  best  of  his 
exile  here,  but  actively  taking  real  pleasure  in  it  all. 
But  to-day  there  was  a  huge  difference.  He  was  glad 
because  he  was  glad,  not  because  he  wished  to  appear 
glad.  Peggy,  too,  making  a  sea-sick  passenger  out  of 
an  orange!  To-day  it  amused  her;  yesterday,  had 
she  done  it,  it  would  have  been  to  amuse  other  people. 
What  a  difference  there! 

Above,  the  beneficent  sun,  and  all  round,  for  they 
lunched  in  but  a  little  island  of  a  shelter,  the  clean, 
powdery  snow,  frozen  and  hard  just  on  the  surface,  but 
a  millimetre  below,  not  wet  or  slushy,  as  is  the  manner 
of  the  more  temperate  stuff,  but  like  sawdust,  dry  from 
the  cold.  There  was  the  heat  of  summer,  too,  in  the 
sun's  rays,  the  blaze  of  the  tropics,  the  blueness  of  South 
Italy,  yet  all  round  was  the  untainted  purity  of  frost. 
The  blood  and  the  brain  had  here  their  ideal  environ- 
ment; it  was  hot  and  frosty — Shakespeare's  paradox 


352  SHEAVES 

was  literally  fulfilled.  Everyone  was  swift  and  pleased 
and  animated;  fog  of  the  brain  or  the  temper  was  a 
thing  as  far  and  as  forgotten  as  its  atmospheric  counter- 
part. Anything  that  clogged  or  confused  the  senses 
was  non-existent,  incredible.  One  could  mix  with  the 
elements,  and  breathe,  and  be! 

Edith  looked  round  the  table  as  she  finished  her 
coffee.  Everyone  was  pleased,  happy.  The  tragic 
mask  which  in  life  even  as  in  Greek  bas-reliefs  is  strung 
side  by  side  with  the  mask  of  comedy,  seemed  to  have 
slipped  from  its  place;  the  kind,  warm  world  showed 
only  its  smiling,  shining  side.  She  had  come  out  of  a 
very  dark  and  lonely  valley — in  spite  of  Hugh  it  had 
been  lonely — and  though  she  knew  well  there  lay  many 
miles  of  valley  in  front  of  her  still,  yet  the  ground  was 
mounting.  And  at  the  place  in  her  journey  at  which 
she  had  arrived  to-day  there  was,  so  to  speak,  a  cleft  in 
the  wall  of  rock  that  had  shut  her  in  for  all  these  weeks, 
and  a  huge  beam  of  dusty  sunlight  came  in,  warming 
and  gladdening  her. 

She  went  back  alone  to  her  house  when  lunch  was 
over,  in  the  sledge  that  had  come  for  her,  forbidding 
either  Hugh  or  Peggy  to  accompany  her,  and  even 
refusing,  with  thanks,  Ambrose's  offer  to  come  up  with 
her,  for  she  wanted  to  be  alone ;  just  as  when  Sir  Thomas 
had  first  told  her  her  sentence,  she  had  to  be  alone  to 
think  that  over,  to  scrutinise  the  face  of  the  future  till 
it  became  familiar,  part  of  her.  And  so  quietly,  so 
honestly,  had  she  done  that,  that  the  news  that  had 
reached  her  to-day — much  better,  incredibly  better — 
had  got  to  be  made  familiar  too. 

She  lay  down  on  the  sofa  in  the  balcony,  where  up  till 
now  more  than  half  of  her  life  at  Davos  had  been  passed. 
She  was  a  little  tired,  a  little  excited,  by  this  first  long 


vSHEAVES  353 

outing,  and  for  some  while  she  lay  very  quiet,  closing 
the  eyes  of  her  mind,  as  it  were,  resting  it.  All  round 
her  were  the  innumerable  contrivances  of  invalid  life — an 
electric  bell  on  the  arm  of  her  chair,  so  that  she  could 
summon  her  nurse  without  moving,  an  adjustable  shutter 
on  each  side  of  the  balcony,  so  that  the  wind  or  the  sun 
could  be  screened  from  her;  a  small  cross-over  table 
which  could  be  balanced  on  the  arm  of  her  couch  so  that 
she  could  write,  an  elbowed  bookstand  which  could  be 
pushed  away  or  brought  in  front  of  her.  And  slowly, 
as  she  let  her  mind  dwell  on  the  great  news  of  to-day, 
all  these  things,  so  familiar  from  long  and  continuous 
use,  somehow  seemed  to  fade  and  oecome  meaningless 
portions  of  the  past,  even  as  when  we  see  the  first  snow- 
drop, so  bravely,  so  weakly,  aspiring,  piercing  the  cold 
brown  earth,  and  promising  spring,  the  dead  leaves  of 
last  autumn  suddenly  become  without  significance  to 
us.  The  death  of  winter  that  they  foreboded  is  over, 
winter  is  forgotten.  It  was  just  so  with  her  now;  these 
invalid  contrivances  suddenly  turned  to  the  leaves  which 
had  been  shed  before  winter.  Real  summer  was  coming 
now.  Nearly  two  years  ago  her  Indian  summer  had 
come  to  crown  the  early  wreck  and  autumn  of  her  life. 
What  should  this  be,  this  revivification  after  the  winter 
of  weeks  that  had  succeeded  it? 

Edith  suddenly  felt  her  pulse  leap  and  quiver  in  her 
wrists  and  in  her  throat,  with  the  wonder  and  the  excite- 
ment of  this,  and,  with  the  faculty  that  invalids  develop, 
she  took  her  mind  off  it,  and  went  back  to  the  past 
instead  of  peering  further  into  the  tremulous,  luminous 
future.  On  the  first  day  that  she  knew  of  her  disease 
she  had  intended  and  determined  to  live,  to  put  the 
thought  of  death  away,  to  set  her  mind  on  recovery. 
And  now  when  she  had  gone  so  far — incredibly  better — • 


354  SHEAVES 

on  that  road,  she  could  look  back  and  see  how  far  and 
how  often  she  had  fallen  short  of  her  purpose.  And  she 
shook  her  head  over  her  misdeeds.  She  had  always 
intended  well,  but  how  often  her  best  had  been  but  a 
sorry  performance.  She  had  so  often  lain  like  a  mere  log 
under  her  fatigue  and  despondency,  yet,  indeed,  she  had 
only  lain  like  a  log  when  she  felt  absolutely  incapable 
of  doing  otherwise.  But  it  was  no  use  arguing  about  it, 
or  excusing  herself  like  that;  she  had  failed  often  and 
often.  But  there  was  one  who  had  never  failed — Hugh. 
She  had  often  been  odious  and  detestable  to  him,  and 
fretful,  but,  indeed,  she  had  never  ceased  trying  to  be 
otherwise  except  when,  so  it  seemed,  the  power  of 
volition  had  failed  her.  And  he  had  always  understood. 
In  his  mind  it  had  never  been  she  who  was  fretful ;  it 
was  only  the  "insects." 

That  suddenly  hammering  pulse  had  grown  quieter, 
but  still  she  did  not  look  toward  the  future  again.  It 
was  her  business — indeed,  she  had  none  other  immediate 
— to  get  well.  All  through  these  weeks  they  had  encour- 
aged her  always  to  occupy  herself  in  some  quiet  way 
rather  than  lie  here  without  any  employment,  except 
when  she  was  definitely  resting,  and  in  addition  to  the 
innumerable  books  she  had  read,  the  endless  games 
of  picquet  she  had  played  with  Hugh  (they  played 
nominally  for  sovereign  points,  it  being  understood  no 
money  was  to  pass,  and  she  had  lost  nine  thousand  seven 
hundred  pounds  on  balance),  she  had  worked  at  the 
play  which  (with  extreme  content)  she  had  despaired 
of  ever  bringing  to  birth.  Hugh  had  said  it  was  not 
by  Andrew  Robb  at  all,  and  she  had  agreed  with  him. 
So  when  her  invalid  life  began  she  had  destroyed  what 
was  done  of  it  and  had  set  to  work  again.  Two  acts 
had  been  rs-written,  and  now,  instead  of  indulging  in 


SHEAVES  355 

further  speculation,  she  took  them  up  and  read  them. 
She  had  not  touched  the  play  at  all  since  Peggy,  now 
some  three  weeks  ago,  had  come  out  to  Switzerland, 
and  she  hoped  to  be  able  to  read  them  with  that  detach- 
ment from  the  feeling  of  authorship  which  only  the  lapses 
of  time  can  give.  But  the  mere  reading  reminded  her 
too  acutely  of  the  circumstances  under  which  she  wrote. 
It  reminded  her  too  much  of  the  sway  of  "the  insects." 
She  could  not  manage  it  alone,  but  Hugh  or  Peggy,  if 
they  cared,  should  read  it  aloud  after  dinner.  They 
were  insecticides. 

The  insecticides  fell  in  with  her  suggestion,  and  that 
evening  Hugh  read  to  her  and  Peggy.  Sometimes  he 
found  it  rather  hard  to  control  his  voice;  sometimes 
Peggy  blew  her  nose.  And  after  the  last  page  was 
turned  they  all  sat  silent  a  little — 

"  But  it's  Andrew  Robb  again,"  said  Hugh  at  length. 
"Genuine  Andrew  Robb,  only  he  has  improved.  Oh, 
Edith,  now  you  are  so  much  better,  do  be  diligent  and 
do  the  other  act.  You  have  plenty  of  time,  you  know." 

But  Peggy  turned  to  Edith. 

"No,  I  hope  you'll  never  finish  it,"  said  she.  "Hugh 
doesn't  understand.  Andrew  Robb  was  born  out  of 
misery.  Oh,  let's  play  that  silly  game  where  you  mustn't 
take  any  knaves!" 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  spire  of  Davos  Church,  so  steep  in  pitch  that  even 
in  mid-winter  no  snowflake  could  cling  to  it  even 
for  the  moment's  space  in  which  it  could  lie  there  and 
give  consolidation  to  the  next  flake,  was  to-day  no 
grayer  than  its  surroundings.  For  weeks  past  the  annual 
thaw  had  set  in,  and  now  the  village  itself  and  a  couple 
of  hundred  feet  of  hillside  above  it  were  quite  clear  of 
snow.  But  spring  was  not  behaving,  so  Hugh  thought, 
as  he  sat  on  a  pine-bole  above  the  valley,  in  a  Tenny- 
sonian  manner.  When  the  "last  long  streak  of  snow" 
fades,  the  "maze  of  quick"  ought  to  bourgeon.  What 
the  "maze  of  quick"  in  terms  of  flower  and  leaf  was  he 
did  not  accurately  know.  But  he  was  safe  in  saying 
that  nothing  of  any  description  was  bourgeoning.  Noth- 
ing looked  like  bourgeoning,  unless  to  bourgeon  was  to 
look  flat  and  stale  and  dead. 

Three  months  had  gone  since  the  glorious  day  when 
Peggy,  Daisy,  and  he  had  passed  the  test  for  the  English 
rink,  and  it  was  now  mid-April.  He  had  been  down 
every  morning  to  get  a  little  skating,  until  a  week  ago, 
when  the  short  grass  below  the  last  little  patch  of  ice 
had  begun  to  show  through  the  surface  he  intended 
to  skate  on.  But  when  that  happened,  it  was  no  longer 
any  use  to  pretend  to  Edith  that  he  was  going  to  skate, 
and  should  be  on  the  rink  the  whole  morning.  For  a 
time  that  excuse  of  enjoyable  occupation  had  served, 
and  often  he  had  sat  there,  since  the  ice  was  unskate- 
able,  being  decaying  slush  merely,  in  order  to  spend  a 
few  hours  away  from  the  house,  in  order  to  make  her 

356 


SHEAVES  357 

believe  that  he  was  still  occupied.  But  when  the  ice 
finally  vanished  he  had  to  make  other  reasons  for  his 
absence. 

There  was  heart-break  here;  he  longed  only  to  be 
with  her;  she,  on  the  other  hand,  longed  only  that  he 
should  be  amusing  himself,  taking  up  the  long  hours 
of  the  increasing  day  in  congenial  pursuits.  She,  in 
pursuance  of  regime,  had  to  stop  at  Davos,  take  slow 
walks,  and  still  lie  out  on  the  balcony,  looking  no  longer 
at  the  exhilarating  fields  of  snow,  but  at  the  brown, 
drowsy  landscape  of  spring.  She  had  often  entreated 
him  to  go  back  to  England  for  a  few  weeks  to  see  his 
friends,  to  hear  music,  to  take  a  little  jaunt,  a  little 
holiday,  as  she  called  it,  and  as  often  he  had  clung  to  the 
fact  that  he  really  cared  more  about  skating  than  any- 
thing else.  That  had  done  well  enough  till  about  a  week 
ago;  then  she  had  observed  that  the  rink  was  no  more 
than  a  brown  pasturage  for  abstemiously-minded  cattle. 

Other  things — the  big  things — troubled  him  also. 
Doctors'  reports  continued  to  be  fairly  satisfactory,  and 
they  told  him  that  it  was  quite  unreasonable  to  expect 
that  the  immensely  rapid  improvement  which  Edith 
had  recorded  in  the  winter  could  possibly  keep  up  at 
that  rate.  That  could  not  be.  They  did  not  say  that 
she  had  gone  back  (that  was  satisfactory),  but  during 
the  last  three  or  four  weeks  she  had  not,  frankly,  gone 
forward.  But  that  was  quite  normal — consumptives 
behaved  like  that.  Also,  he  must  remember  that  the 
spring,  even  for  those  in  good  health,  was  always  a  trying 
season  of  the  year;  those  who  were  not  in  good  health 
felt  it  much  more  acutely.  There  had  been  a  great  deal 
of  south  wind,  too,  lately — moist,  relaxing,  tiring.  It 
was  reasonable  to  hope  and  to  expect  that  when  the 
weather  improved  she  would  continue  to  improve  also. 


358  SHEAVES 

It  was  not  bad  news,  nor  anything  like  it,  and  Hugh 
realised  as  he  sat  on  the  red  bole  of  the  fallen  pine, 
watching  the  blue  smoke  of  his  cigarette  hang  in  the 
relaxed  air,  even  as  below  him  the  smoke  from  the 
chimneys  of  the  village  stood  in  layers  and  lines  above 
the  houses,  unable  to  disperse,  that  the  fault  had  been 
his  in  expecting  too  rapid  an  improvement.  But, 
indeed,  he  had  secret  cause  for  disquiet;  though  the 
disease,  so  he  was  professionally  assured,  had  made 
no  further  inroads  physically,  it  was  becoming  daily 
more  trying  to  Edith.  For  two  months  or  more  in  the 
past  winter  she  had  been  extraordinarily  serene  and 
happy,  content  even,  Hugh  would  have  said.  But  for 
these  last  weeks — every  fibre  and  nerve  of  him  told  him 
so — she  had  been  engaged  in  a  mental  conflict  fiercer 
than  any  physical  struggle  could  be,  more  wearing, 
more  incessant.  She  had  hardly  ever  spoken  of  it  to 
him;  once  or  twice  she  had  said,  "Oh,  Hughie,  it  is  so 
hard  to  behave  decently,"  but  her  very  reticence  showed 
him  how  mortal  the  struggle  was.  Had  it  been  less 
fierce  she  could  have  spoken  of  it.  She  was  bitterly 
disappointed  at  this  cessation  in  her  own  improvement; 
she  had  come  to  believe  that  she  was  going  to  have  a 
miraculously  rapid  cure.  And  now  the  pendulum  had 
swung  the  other  way ;  instead  of  looking  forward  eagerly 
into  the  future  it  was  all  she  could  do  to  bear  the  present. 

Hugh  could  guess  how  dreadful,  too,  was  the  dis- 
appointment, the  despair  she  felt  at  being  unable  to  rise 
above  the  discomfort  and  fatigue  of  the  hours.  She 
had  hoped,  so  gallantly,  that  her  mind,  her  soul,  could 
remain  a  thing  apart  from  the  body,  superior  to  it, 
looking  down  on  it,  as  from  a  mountain-top  one  looks 
incuriously  on  the  wreaths  and  snakes  of  fog  below 
that  cannot  cloud  the  upper  sunshine.  She  had  expected 


SHEAVES  359 

the  impossible;  all  that  gallant  womanhood  could  do 
she  had  done;  as  she  said  to  Peggy,  she  would  always 
do  her  best,  and  Hugh  knew  how  excellent  the  best 
had  been.  But  she,  poor  soul,  mourned  over  it, 
upbraiding  herself  in  that  it  was  not  perfect. 

Again,  it  was  found  that  Davos  did  not  at  all  suit 
her  baby,  and  a  couple  of  months  ago  the  boy  had  been 
sent  back  to  England,  to  be  in  Peggy's  care.  He  had 
been  ailing,  too;  it  was  nothing  serious,  but  Edith  was 
not  in  a  state  to  be  saddled  with  extra  weight. 

Oh,  it  was  hard,  and  it  was  not  the  lightest  part  of 
the  burden  that  had  to  be  borne  that  fell  on  Hugh, 
though  he  did  not  know  that.  Often,  again,  as  in  the 
first  weeks,  his  presence  seemed  merely  to  irritate  Edith; 
he  could  see,  with  swelling  throat  that  nearly  choked 
him,  how  great  the  effort  was  to  her  sometimes  to  be 
courteous  even  to  him.  Hugh  was  no  Christian  Scien- 
tist, but  in  general  terms  he  believed  that  disease  was 
a  work  of  the  devil,  and  the  devil  (stupid  fellow  or  not) 
hit  upon  some  extraordinarily  ingenious  devices.  He 
had,  in  fact,  hit  upon  this  one,  that  just  because  Edith  so 
loved  her  husband,  she  found  that  it  was  he,  of  all  the 
world,  who  tried  her  most.  And  all  the  time  her  real 
self  was  longing,  even  while  her  tongue,  perhaps,  was 
being  acidly  courteous,  simply  to  weep  out  her  heart 
on  his  breast,  saying,  "  Hughie,  Hughie,  you  understand, 
don't  you?"  and  find  the  perfection,  the  crown  of  her 
lite  there. 

And  he  did  understand ;  there  lay  the  helpless  pathos 
of  it.  A  non-existent  barrier  separated  them. 

All  the  time,  too,  it  was  Hugh's  business  to  be  cheerful, 
to  be  natural,  and  foolish,  and  boyish.  That,  again, 
was  not  easy,  when,  whatever  he  did  or  said,  appeared 
"  to  be  wrong."  And  there  was  no  respite;  "  the  cheerful 


360  SHEAVES 

and  contented  spirit,"  as  Mr.  Micawber  said,  "had  to 
be  kept  up." 

And  then,  oases  in  the  wilderness,  sometimes  a  golden 
day  fluttered  down.  Edith  would  be  better,  and,  more 
than  once,  contrite,  humbled  to  the  dust,  as  she  viewed 
the  last  week  from  some  less  tortured  standpoint,  she 
could  only  mutely  plead  his  forgiveness.  And  there 
was  nothing  to  forgive — nothing,  at  least,  except  the 
little  insects,  and  Hugh  had  no  more  intention  of  for- 
giving them  than  of  forgiving  the  devil  for  all  the 
trouble  he  has  made  in  this  world,  which  would  have 
been  so  pleasant  if  he  had  only  died  before  we  were  born. 

In  these  rifts  in  the  clouds — one  had  come  yesterday — 
there  was  no  need  for  her  to  say,  "  I  am  horrible,  but  I 
am  doing  my  best,"  and  no  need  for  him  to  say,  "I  am 
stupid,  but  I  am  doing  mine,"  because  they  both  utterly 
understood.  Then,  as  on  this  morning,  clouds  wrould 
again,  for  some  reason  or  other,  drive  over  the  face  of 
the  sun,  and  then  when  there  was  need  for  Edith  to  say 
just  that  word,  she  could  not,  could  not!  And,  while 
silence  starved  her,  Hugh  had  to  whistle,  or  ask  some 
absurd  riddle  to  show  he  was  quite  cheerful  and  happy, 
thank  you. 

Hugh  kept  his  depression  and  misgivings  for  such 
times  as  when  he  was  alone ;  as  soon  a*>  he  set  out  from 
the  house  on  a  soi-disant  skating  errand,  or,  as  to-day, 
to  smell  the  pine-woods,  since  the  skating  excuse  had 
broken  down,  he  always  found  some  companion  of  this 
nature  waiting  for  him,  like  a  faithful  dog,  outside  the 
front  door,  eager  for  a  walk.  To-day  the  dog  had  kept 
very  close  to  him,  and  now,  as  he  sat  on  the  fallen  pine, 
it  jumped  up  beside  him,  and  thrust  itself  on  his  notice. 
It  had  always  got  some  fresh  fawning  trick,  and  to-day 
it  had  a  new  one,  a  beautv.  It  was  this. 


SHEAVES  361 

Edith  had  begun  to  write  the  last  act  of  her  play, 
and  Hugh's  faithful  companion  (this  was  its  trick)  made 
him  remember  with  vital  vividness  the  few  words  that 
had  been  said  after  he  had  read,  now  three  months  ago, 
the  first  two  acts.  Peggy,  reasonable,  cheerful  Peggy, 
in  the  evening  of  that  glorious  day,  had  hoped  that 
Andrew  Robb  would  never  finish  it,  for  he  was  born  of 
misery.  And  only  two  days  ago  Hugh  had  asked  his 
wife  whether  Andrew  Robb  was  writing  still,  whether 
he  had  come  back  to  her.  It  appeared  he  had. 

So  the  miserable  spirit  was  in  the  house,  holding  her 
pen,  uttering  her  thoughts.  Was  all  beauty,  then,  all 
fine  work  born  of  misery?  Was  the  "heavenly  mind," 
which,  so  rightly,  he  had  attributed  to  Andrew  Robb, 
active  most  when  the  soul  was  in  travail,  in  trouble? 

The  sun  was  very  warm  to-day  and  the  air  windless. 
Hugh  had  had  a  nearly  sleepless  night;  vague  trouble 
had  oppressed  him  through  all  the  dark  hours,  vague 
while  he  looked  it  in  the  face,  but  real  enough  when 
drowsiness  began  to  touch  him  on  the  shoulder  or  to 
tweak  his  blanket,  so  that,  as  often  as  he  dozed,  he  was 
called  back  again.  And  now,  in  the  same  vague  trouble, 
that  which  had  tweaked  and  plucked  at  him  during  the 
night  stood  somewhere  close  by  him.  It  would  not  do 
at  all,  and  he  sat  up,  banishing  the  drowsiness  that  his 
sleepless  night  had  brought  on  him. 

He  had  thrown  away  the  end  of  his  cigarette,  and  it 
had  fallen  into  a  clump  of  bilberries,  and  from  the 
clump  arose  a  little  blue  coil  of  smoke,  twining  lazily 
about  the  still  air.  Below  lay  the  quiet  Alpine  village, 
brown  and  gray,  with  its  lazy  layer  of  smoke  above  it. 
Then  close  behind  him  came  a  flutter  and  scurry  of  wings, 
and  a  bird  perched  itself  in  a  tree  near  him  and  gave 
three  monotone  whistles.  Then  it  stopped;  its  love, 


362  SHEAVES 

its  mate,  did  not  answer.  It  could  not  go  on  alone. 
Some  breath  of  wind  in  the  upper  air  stirred,  and  the 
pine  tops  spoke  of  the  sea  to  each  other.  All  these 
things  were  drowsy,  incomplete.  They  tried  to  be  alive; 
the  cigarette  end  tried  to  burn  the  bilberries;  the  pine- 
trees  sighed  for  a  real  wind;  the  bird  tried  to  sing,  but 
did  not  find  the  stimulus.  It  was  the  hour,  in  fact, 
to  him  and  all  the  world,  when  it  is  better,  if  possible, 
to  go  to  sleep  again  till  real  morning  comes.  He  had  a 
sleepless  night  behind  him,  so,  probably,  he  slept. 

But  he  did  not  know  that  he  slept ;  he  only  knew  that 
drowsiness  again  gained  on  him,  and  he  heard  a  step 
coming  up  the  needle-strewn  path  below  the  pines,  which 
seemed  to  wake  him  again  into  complete  activity  of 
consciousness.  Then  he  saw,  but  strained  his  eyes  at  it, 
for  he  could  not  see  distinctly,  whose  was  the  step.  He 
did  not  know  whether  the  figure  was  male  or  female; 
the  face  was  bent  down  toward  the  earth  as  it  approached 
him  up  the  steep  path,  and  he  could  not  see  it.  Then, 
when  it  came  close,  it  raised  its  head,  and  at  that  moment 
Hugh  knew  it  more  utterly  than  he  knew  himself,  for 
it  was  Edith's  face.  Yet,  in  the  same  moment,  it  was 
not  her  face,  it  was  the  face  of  a  stranger,  kind,  wise, 
but  inexorable.  Then,  though  the  mouth  remained 
still,  the  eyes — Edith's  eyes — smiled  at  him,  and  then 
the  lips  said,  " Du  meine  Seele,  du  mein  Herz."  Then 
everything,  figure  and  pine  tree,  Davos  and  sky,  cigarette 
whorl  of  smoke,  and  smoke  of  the  village  "clicked." 
And  Hugh  saw  that  they  were  all  there  except  the  figure 
that  he  had — dreamed. 

He  had  understood  about  Edith  before,  about  her 
irritation  at  him.  He  had  seen  it  now.  It  became  a 
little  more  real,  a  final  turn  of  the  screw  had  come  to 
drive  home  what  he  knew.  Of  course,  he  had  been 


SHEAVES  363 

asleep.  But  what  did  that  matter?  Truth  and  false- 
hood are  in  dreams,  just  as  truth  and  falsehood  are  in 
waking  hours.  The  truth  may  come  through  either; 
falsehood  may  come  through  either. 

But  the  dream  anyhow  had  banished  the  terrible 
companion  that  just  now  had  sat  on  the  pine-tree  close 
to  him,  which  for  days  and  days  had  been  that  which 
made  solitude  lonely.  It  was  Doubt;  that  at  last  was 
the  name  of  the  dog.  He  had  never  seen  it,  he  had  only 
imagined  its  presence.  He  had  been  afraid — the  inde- 
fensible emotion,  as  Edith  had  once  said  to  him.  That 
and  anger;  there  was  no  excuse  for  them. 

But  now  he  had  seen  or  dreamed  something  that  said 
he  was  her  soul  and  her  heart.  Wonderful  though  it 
was,  perhaps,  indeed,  because  it  was  wonderful,  it 
seemed  incontestably  true. 

The  path  was  steep,  he  ran  and  slipped  down  it,  to 
be  back  at  the  hour  for  lunch. 

"Yes,  if  you  ask  me,"  said  Hugh,  half  an  hour  later, 
"I  won't  deceive  you.  I  have  been  sitting  in  a  pine- 
wood,  and  I  never  want  to  do  anything  nicer." 

It  was  a  bad  morning  with  Edith.  She,  too,  had 
slept  ill ;  she  had  heard  from  the  doctor  that  she  was  not 
getting  on.  She  had  heard,  too,  something  that  she 
had  not  told  Hugh,  something  that  she  had  made  the 
doctor  promise  not  to  tell  him.  And  illness,  weakness, 
fatigue  combined  together.  Instead  of  saying,  "Oh, 
how  nice,  do  let  us  go  there  this  afternoon,"  she  said — 

"What  a  pity  you  did  not  take  your  lunch  with  you. 
Then  you  need  not  have  come  back  here." 

Hugh  contrasted  the  difference.  If  only  she  had 
said  "we"  instead  of  "you!"  The  non-existent  wall 
rose  swift  and  high  between  them.  And  he  had  to  play 
his  role  of  cheerful  insouciance. 


V 

364  SHEAVES 

"In  which  case,"  he  said,  "I  should  not  be  lunching 
now  with  you.  I  like  lunching  with  you,  do  you 
know?" 

He  caught  her  eye  for  a  moment,  and  the  soul  behind 
it  yearned  toward  him.  But  the  devil,  the  insects, 
were  potent. 

"Won't  you  like  to  go  there  again  this  afternoon?" 
she  said.  "Since  the  ice  has  gone  there  is  really  no- 
where else  for  you  to  go.  Do  send  Ferris  up  with  the 
tea-basket.  You  can  have  tea  there." 

Yet — how  she  tried,  but  how  miserable  she  was! 
She  knew,  too,  after  her  interview  with  the  doctor  this 
morning,  why  she  found  it  all  so  difficult.  But  she  did 
not  want  Hugh  to  know  just  )^et.  She  would  bear  it 
alone  for  a  little,  though  it  was  just  this  bearing  it  alone 
that  was  so  hard.  But  she  did  so  want  him  to  have  a 
few  days  more  without  this  extra  burden. 

"Yes,  do  let  us  have  tea  there,"  he  said.  "I  should 
love  to  show  you  the  place.  Do  come ;  it  will  be  splendid 
if  you  will  come." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  I  don't  really  feel  up  to  it  to-day,"  she  said. 

"Oh,   I  am  sorry!"  said  Hugh.     "Poor  darling." 

Edith  gave  a  little  impatient  click  with  her  tongue. 

"Oh!  how  often  have  I  told  you  that  I  can  bear  any- 
thing but  pity,"  she  said. 

They  had  finished  lunch,  and  she  got  up  as  she  spoke 
and  stepped  out  on  to  the  balcony  where  she  usually 
lay.  On  her  way  she  passed  close  by  the  back  of  Hugh's 
chair,  and  longed — how  she  longed — to  take  that  dear 
head  in  her  arms,  and  just  say,  "Oh,  don't  you  under- 
stand, don't  you  understand?"  But  she  could  not; 
just  at  this  moment  she  could  not  raise  her  head  above 


SHEAVES  365 

the  bitter  salt  wave  of  misery  that  smothered  and 
choked  her. 

Hugh  sat  a  few  moments  longer  at  the  table,  finishing 
his  cigarette.  Perhaps  it  was  that  the  reaction  from 
that  little  dream  he  had  had  on  the  hillside  that  morning, 
which  gave  him  such  comfort,  such  consolation,  had 
come;  perhaps  his  instinct  told  him  that  there  was  some 
fresh  disaster  which  he  did  not  yet  know;  perhaps  this 
was  only  the  last  straw,  the  little  infinitesimal  thing  that 
made  all  the  rest  unbearable.  Anyhow,  as  Edith  went 
out,  he  felt  his  heart  sink  where  it  had  never  sunk  before, 
into  an  abyss  of  misery  down  which  he  could  not  bear 
to  look.  He  knew — -that  was  the  worst  part  of  it  almost 
— how  horribly  ill,  how  wretched,  how  weak  Edith  must 
be  feeling  to  speak  to  him  like  that. 

Well,  he  had  to  be  cheerful,  and  he  got  up,  calling  to 
her. 

"  I  shall  go  out  then,  dear,  but  I  think  I'll  come  back  for 
tea.  It's  rather  a  steep  climb  for  the  tea-basket  carrier." 

She  did  not  answer,  and  he  went  out  of  the  room.  But 
in  the  hall  he  stopped.  He  was  too  sick  at  heart  to  walk ; 
he  was  too  sick  at  heart  to  do  anything.  Nothing 
seemed  worth  while;  the  thought  of  the  hillside,  of  the 
clean  pine  odour,  were  hateful  to  him,  the  earth  and 
the  sky  were  all  hateful.  Yet — what  else  was  there 
to  do?  He  must  go,  after  all;  Edith  must  think  he  was 
tramping  cheerfully  through  the  woods.  He  had  left 
his  hat  in  his  bedroom,  and  went  there  for  it.  But  he 
could  do  no  more.  The  breaking  point  came,  and  he 
broke.  He  threw  himself  down  on  his  bed  face  down- 
ward and  sobbed. 

Edith  heard  him  leave  the  room,  and  as  the  door  shut 
she  felt  as  if  her  own  heart  had  been  shut  out  from  her, 
leaving  just  this  tortured,  miserable  bundle  of  nerves 


366  SHEAVES 

and  tissues  which  was  her  body.  For  her,  too,  this 
afternoon,  it  seemed  that  the  unbearable  had  been 
reached,  and  the  blackness  of  it  consisted  in  the  fact 
that  it  was  her  own  fault.  Why  had  she  not  taken  that 
dear  head  in  her  anns  a  minute  ago  when  she  had  the 
chance?  Why  had  she  not  sent  her  pride,  her  stupid 
pride  that  revolted  from  pity — Hugh's  pity — to  the 
devil,  from  whom  it  undoubtedly  came?  Why,  too, 
was  it  allowed  that  Hugh,  of  all  the  people  in  the  world, 
should  have  the  power  to  make  her  like  this? 

She  descended  into  lower  depths;  she  told  herself 
that  she  knew  he  was  being  hopelessly  bored  here,  bored 
when  he  was  with  her,  who  was  suffering  so.  Of  course 
he  refused  to  go  to  England,  he  could  not  well  do  other- 
wise, but  surely  he  wanted  to  go.  Or  perhaps  he  did 
not  much-care ;  he  was  the  sort  of  person  who  was  happy 
and  whistling  everywhere.  He  had  been  extraordinarily 
cheerful  all  these  months — his  cheerfulness  had  seemed 
so  effortless,  too,  that  now,  in  this  blackest  hour  she  had 
ever  known,  she  told  herself  it  was  effortless.  He  did 
not  really  care,  she  saw  that  now. 

For  one  moment  Edith  turned  off  the  flow  of  these 
meditations  and  asked  herself  if  she  was  going  mad  or 
had  gone  mad.  She  decided,  however,  that  she  was  only 
being  clear-sighted  and  making  discoveries.  Yet  some- 
where, deep  down  in  her,  in  spite  of  the  darkness  of  this 
wave  of  misery  that  was  going  over  her  head  and  the 
deep  waters  that  were  drowning  her,  there  burned  a 
little  flame  by  which  she  saw — at  least  an  infinitesimal 
fraction  of  her  saw — that  she  was  thinking  wild,  wicked 
nonsense.  But  all  the  rest  of  her,  her  tired,  tortured 
brain  told  her  that  she  was  thinking  sense.  And  then 
that  little  flame  went  out  too,  and  for  the  moment  she 
believed  it  all. 


SHEAVES  367 

And  that  was  the  true  authentic  hell,  more  real  than 
any  that  theologian  had  invented.  For  she  was  quite 
alone;  there  was  nobody  here  except  herself. 

The  balcony  where  she  had  been  lying  ran  round  two 
sides  of  the  house,  and  both  drawing-room  and  dining 
room  on  this  side,  and  Hugh's  bedroom  on  the  other, 
opened  on  to  it.  She  got  up,  alone  in  hell,  and  walked 
quietly  up  and  down  it  once  or  twice.  Then,  to  make 
her  quarter-deck  a  little  longer,  she  turned  the  corner 
and  went  by  Hugh's  room.  The  window  was  wide 
open,  and  she  saw  him  lying  there  face  downward  on 
his  bed. 

For  the  moment  it  was  as  if  the  devil  and  all  his  spirits 
tried  to  get  in  between  her  and  him,  and  she  stood  on  the 
threshold,  unable,  it  seemed  to  herself,  to  take  a  step 
forward.  He  had  not  heard  her ;  he  had  heard  nothing 
for  the  last  few  minutes,  poor  soul,  and  she  looked  on 
his  shaking  shoulders  with  that  wall  of  evil  in  between. 
And  then,  thank  God,  she  marched  straight  through  it, 
and  she  was  not  alone  any  more,  there  was  no  hell  any 
more. 

Then  the  scalding  tears  rose  to  her  eyes,  tears  from 
which  all  self  was  banished;  they  were  utterly  for  him, 
whom  she  loved  so,  whom  in  thought  she  had  wronged 
so.  Soon,  no  doubt,  there  would  be  shame  and  humilia- 
tion in  them,  but  not  yet. 

She  just  said — 

"Oh,  Hughie,  Hughie!"  and  fell  on  her  knees  by  the 
bedside. 

And  like  two  children  who  have  lost  each  other  in 
some  dismal,  dark  forest,  when  night  is  coming  on,  they 
found  each  other  again.  There  was  no  need  of  any 
words  at  first.  Edith  did  not  ask  him  why  he  was  cry- 
ing, for  she  knew,  and  he  did  not  ask  why  she  had  come 


368  SHEAVES 

to  him,  for  he  knew  that  he  needed  her.     That  was  why 
she  came. 

Then  soon,  still  kneeling  there,  she  confessed  to  him  all 
the  blackness  of  her  thoughts,  and  heard  him  tell  her 
that  it  was  not  she.  That  was  true,  too.  Hugh,  any- 
how, utterly  believed  it,  and  that  was  absolutely  all  that 
mattered. 

But  there  was  more  still  to  tell,  and  though  this  morn- 
ing Edith  had  planned  not  to  tell  Hugh  yet,  now  she  knew 
it  to  be  impossible  not  to  tell  him.  For  had  she  known 
it  then  (she  knew  it  now),  it  was  not  only  her  care  and 
solicitude  for  him  that  bade  her  be  silent,  but  also  her 
pride,  or  what  came  nearest  that,  the  same  thing  that 
ever  and  again  through  these  weeks  had  made  a  gateless 
barrier  between  them,  the  same  thing  that  had  made 
her  say  that  she  could  bear  anything  but  pity.  It  was 
consistent  with  all  that  was  fine  and  high  about  her  that 
she  should  be  intolerant  of  the  pity  of  the  world,  of  the 
pity  of  her  friends  even,  of  Peggy  even,  that  she  should 
hold  her  head  up  even  when  the  worst  hours  were  on  her, 
and  should  be  polite  and  considerate  of  her  nurse,  of  her 
servants,  of  all  who  did  not  matter.  But  there  was  one 
pity  which  could  not  hurt — Hugh's — and  it  was  his  right 
to  know  all  she  knew.  She  had  better  tell  him  now; 
there  must  never  any  more  be  concealment  between 
them. 

They  had  gone  out  on  the  balcony  again,  for  she  would 
not  stop  long  in  his  room,  and  then  she  told  him.  The 
gray  still  world  was  round  them,  a  gray  still  sky  over- 
head; everything  spoke  of  that  moment  of  stagnation, 
when  life,  languid  with  winter,  halts,  unable  yet  to  make 
the  first  effort  of  regeneration.  But  in  her  the  effort  of 
regeneration  was  made;  as  she  told  him  she  knew  con- 


SHEAVES  369 

tent,  she  knew  that  all  that  had  happened,  and  all  that 
might  happen,  all  her  own  shortcomings  and  lapses  of 
courage,  were  nothing,  were  unable  to  live  or  exist  on 
the  plane  where  Love  dwelt,  where  she  and  Hugh  dwelt. 
And  she  had  thought  (though  now  she  had  only  an 
incredulous  smile  for  the  thought)  that  there  had  even 
been  a  barrier  between  him  and  her. 

"There  is  more  I  have  to  say  to  you,  dear,"  she  said, 
"but  I  have  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of  in  this,  for,  in- 
deed, it  was  not  my  fault.  Hughie,  there  were  things  the 
doctor  told  me  this  morning  which  I  asked  him  not  to 
tell  you.  But  I  will  tell  you.  Just  this.  My  heart  is 
weak;  he  does  not  recommend  me  to  stop  much  longer 
here.  The  air  is  too  stimulating." 

Hugh  looked  imploringly  at  her. 

"But  is  it  worse?"  he  said.  "You  told  me  it  was 
rather  weak.  And  yet  the  winter  seemed  to  suit  you  so 
well." 

It  was  no  use  concealing  things. 

Then,  deliberately,  and  of  purpose,  she  turned  round 
on  her  sofa  and  looked  straight  in  front  of  her,  away  from 
him.  By  an  unerring  instinct  she  knew  that  he  must  be 
left  alone  with  that  a  little  while,  till  it  became  familiar 
to  him.  But  as  she  looked  out  over  the  gray-brown 
fields  below  and  across  to  the  black  pines  of  the  hillside 
opposite  there  was  nothing  sad  in  her  face.  It  was  more 
than  patient — it  was  content  even,  for  nothing  could 
stand  agains  the  alchemy  of  love  which  turned  all  to 
gold.  Already  it  had  turned  her  own  meannesses  and 
smallness  to  gold,  to  itself:  this  was  far  easier. 

Then  she  felt  Hugh's  had  rest  on  hers,  and  she  looked 
at  him  and  smiled  at  him.  And  though  his  smile  was 
tremulous  and  quivered,  it  was  there. 

"Yes?"  he  said. 


370  SHEAVES 

"Well,  Hughie,  it  is  a  difficulty,"  she  said.  "These 
stupid  lungs  of  mine  want  dry  and  exhilarating  air,  or 
they  will  strike,  and  this  absurd  neart  of  mine  wants 
slack  and  languid  air,  where  it  doesn't  feel  compelled 
to  work  so  hard.  And  one  doesn't  quite  know  where 
such  air  is  to  be  found  as  will  suit  them  both." 

Again  she  waited  till  this  sank  in:  purposely  she  told 
all  the  worst  first.  What  followed  was  rather  better. 

"Now,  there  is  this  chance,"  she  said,  "that  before 
winter  comes  again,  when  the  air  here  is  most  stimulating, 
my  lungs  may  be  so  much  better  that  I  can  safely  go  to 
some  much  lower  place — go  to  England  even — and  lead 
a  very  out-door  life,  and  so  give  my  heart  a  chance. 
But  stopping  here  depends  on  how  it  behaves.  If  it  goes 
from — from  bad  to  worse,  I  shall  have  to  go.  On  the 
other  hand,  perhaps  it  won't,  and  perhaps  my  lungs 
will  begin  to  get  better  again,  so  that  I  can  go  without 
hurting  them.  But  that's  the  situation.  I  am  rather 
like  a  flying-fish  that  is  supposed  to  die  in  the  water  and 
can't  live  on  the  land.  Isn't  it  a  nuisance?  But  it 
isn't  my  fault,  my  darling.  I  asked  him  that.  And  he 
said  I  had  been  a  model  patient.  There!  Respect  me, 
please!" 

Oh,  but  Edith,  the  real  Edith  had  come  back  to  him! 
He  had  not  known  how  dreadful  the  absence  of  this 
serenity,  this  big  outlook,  had  been  till  it  came  back  now, 
bigger,  serener  than  ever.  It  was  scarcely  possible  to 
be  sad  in  the  presence  of  that  sunlit  calm.  His  heart 
bowed  down  not  in  grief  and  regret,  but  in  adoration. 
Bitter  tears,  no  doubt,  would  come,  and  sorrow  to  heart- 
rending, but  not  just  now. 

Edith  paused  a  moment.  In  the  autumn  she  had 
strung  herself  up  to  the  highest  optimism ;  she  had  been 
determined  to  get  well,  and  looked  in  no  other  directipn. 


SHEAVES  371 

She  still  wanted  to,  she  still  would  leave  undone  no  effort 
that  could  conduce  to  that;  but  the  situation  had 
changed.  She  had  to  regard  another  possibility;  Hugh 
had  to  regard  it,  too.  But  the  bitterness  of  it  was  al- 
ready past,  if  they  looked  there  together. 

"But,  supposing  my  heart  does  get  worse,  Hughie," 
she  said,  "and  in  the  interval  my  lungs  don't  get  better, 
what  shall  we  do?  I  asked  Dr.  Harris  what  he  recom- 
mended, and  we  talked  quite  openly  about  it.  You  see, 
it  is  one  thing  to  be  cured;  it  is  quite  another  just  to 
prolong  life.  He  said  something  about  a  long  sea  voyage, 
but  I  asked  if  that  was  cure  or  prolongation.  It  was 
prolongation.  Now,  I  hate  the  sea,  and  I  hate  ships, 
and  I  am  sea-sick,  and  I  can't  bear  being  cooped  up. 
Do  you  think  it  is  worth  while?  Personally  I  don't, 
but  if  you  do  say  so,  and  we  will  voyage  madly  round 
the  earth  for  as  long  as  you  wish.  If  it  meant  cure  I 
should  insist  on  doing  it  for  my  sake;  make  no  mistake 
about  that.  But  if  one  is  not  going  to  get  better,  is  it 
worth  it?  It  is  so  dreadfully  uncomfortable.  Would 
you  sit  in  a  dentist's  chair  for  a  minute  if  you  knew  that 
you  were  going  to  die  as  soon  as  you  got  up  ?  I  wouldn't. 
And  I  wouldn't  wish  you  to.  I  think  it  is  cowardly  to 
cling  to  life  under  outrageous  conditions." 

Hugh  hid  his  face  in  his  hands  a  moment.  The  glory 
of  the  great  calm  still  encompassed  him. 

"No,"  he  said  at  length,  "I  don't  think — ah,  my 
heart,  what  do  I  think  about  it?  Indeed,  how  can  I 
settle?  Do  you  see  what  you  are  asking  me?  Settle 
yourself,  and  I  welcome  it  because  you  wish  it." 

Edith  gave  a  great  sigh  of  relief. 

"Ah,  then,  if  I  have  to  leave  Davos,"  she  said,  "let 
me  go  home,  down  to  Mannington,  and  lie  there  and 
wait  with  all  those  things  round  us  which  have  become 


372  SHEAVES 

part  of  us.  May  we?  You  said  I  might  settle,  Hugh. 
So  we  will." 

Edith  knew  there  was  more  to  say.  that,  in  fact, 
which  she  had  charged  Peggy  to  tell  Hugh  in  case  she  did 
not.  And  now — though  the  opportunity  was  there, 
though  they  were  actually  talking  of  this  aspect  of  her 
illness — she  did  not.  Now,  that  the  barrier,  fictitious 
but  seeming-solid,  had  been  withdrawn.  Hugh  was  so 
much  her  own  again,  none  other's.  And  she  could  not 
see  him  in  any  other  setting,  possessing  and  possessed 
by  any  other.  Hers  he  was,  hers  by  the  inalienable 
right  of  love.  Once  and  once  again  she  tried  to  speak 
of  that.  But  she  could  not.  And  since  she  could  not 
she  asked  leave  for  this  subject  to  withdraw. 

"I  have  nothing  else  to  say  about  it.  dear  Hughie," 
she  said,  "because  there  is  very  little  ever  to  say  about 
anything  that  really  matters — like — like  that.  I  just 
wanted  to  know  whether  you  would  let  me  go  home 
quietly,  and  live  a  little  less  long  perhaps,  and  not  want 
me  to  drag  wearily  about  the  world,  living  a  life  that  is 
no  life.  It  is  so  feeble,  the  mere  continuance  of  life, 
if  life  means  nothing  except  its  mere  continuance.  What 
should  we  do  on  board  a  dreadful,  swaying,  heaving 
ship?  And,  ah,  there  is  one  thing  more.  Don't  give 
up  your  engagement  in  London  next  year,  at  any  rate 
not  at  present.  Supposing,  by  then,  I  want  you  very 
badly,  and  they  think  I  shall  not  have  you  for  long,  I 
think  then  I  should  be  selfish,  and  wish  you  to  stop  down 
there  with  me.  I  know  I  ask  you  nothing  you  do  not 
want  to  give.  But  let  us  wait,  let  us  see." 

She  paused  again,  stroking  his  hair  gently.  The 
hair  in  question  was  very  straight  and  wiry;  there  had 
been  no  end  of  trouble,  she  remembered  now,  in  making 
it  passable  as  Lohengrin's.  But  he  had  looked  so 


SHEAVES  373 

ridiculous  in  a  crimped,  flaxen  wig.  After  all,  though, 
it  had  done  well  enough. 

"  Now,  Hughie,  have  you  anything  to  say  ? "  she  asked. 
"  If  not,  do  let  us  leave  this  side  of  the  future  until  such 
time  comes  as  makes  it  necessary  for  us  to  look  at  it 
closer.  We  hope  it  won't  come,  don't  we?  but  it  is  no 
longer  any  use  to  pretend  it  may  not.  So  I  shall  count 
up  to  ten  slowly,  and  if  you  don't  say  anything  till  I 
have  finished,  you  must  hold  your  peace  until — until 
things  are  much  more  serious." 

And,  looking  at  him,  she  counted.  At  "six"  she 
paused,  for  she  could  not  get  on.  But  it  was  not  long 
before  "seven"  was  said,  and  the  other  three  numbers 
followed. 

By  the  immutable  laws  that  seem  to  govern  fiction, 
they  ought  to  have  had  a  series  of  pathetic,  heart- 
breaking, but  soul-inspiring  scenes  during  the  next  week. 
But  they — this  impossible  hero  and  heroine — had  noth- 
ing of  the  kind.  Instead  of  the  culminating  poetry  of 
sunset  and  evening  star,  they  had  the  prose  (but  it  was 
good  prose)  of  midday.  What  had  happened,  what 
they  knew  might  happen,  did  not  make  them  in  the  least 
melodramatic,  but  instead  it  expunged  the  possibilty 
of  melodrama.  For  the  melodramatist  is  self-conscious 
— he  sees  himself  as  he  wishes  to  appear.  Neither  Hugh 
nor  Edith  wished  to  appear  at  all.  They  did  not  wish 
to  take  any  part.  But,  like  plain,  simple  people,  they 
stood  there  hand  in  hand  to  take  what  God  was  sending 
them,  simply  and  plainly. 

They  were  happy  too.  It  is  not  implied  that  they 
would  not  have  wished  things  to  be  utterly  different 
from  what  they  were,  but  they  faced  the  things  that 
were.  And  it  would  have  been  much  more  strange  if 
they  had  not  been  happy,  for  they  had  refused  to  admit 


374  SHEAVES 

life  (the  mere  continuance  of  it)  or  death  into  the  cham- 
ber of  love.  But  all  the  little  flower-like  joys  of  the 
world,  the  small  pleasures  of  sense,  the  common  things 
of  the  day,  were  admitted  there.  It  was  still  good  to 
be  hungry  and  have  dinner,  to  be  sleepy  and  go  to  bed, 
to  smell  the  odour  of  the  pines,  to  hear  the  whisper  of  the 
sea,  to  mark  the  timid  uprising  of  the  first  crocuses  of 
spring.  All  these  little  things  found  easy  access  to  the 
hall  of  love,  while  death,  mere  death,  chattered  impo- 
tently  on  the  threshold,  and  was  told  they  were  not  at 
home. 

Best  of  all,  the  wearing,  transitional  days  between 
winter  and  spring  passed,  and  the  romance  and  perennial 
wonder  of  that  renewal  of  Nature  began  to  unfold  itself 
before  their  enchanted  eyes.  The  spirit  of  life  which 
had  lain  dormant,  hibernating  through  the  winter  like 
the  soft,  furry,  bright-eyed  creatures  of  the  woods,  began 
to  stir  and  wake.  A  million  crocuses  were  the  opening 
of  its  eyes,  and  the  smile  on  its  mouth  was  the  flush 
of  green  that  came  up  in  points  of  tender  grass  through 
the  gray  rubbish  of  the  withered  autumn.  Birds  knew 
that  life  was  waking  again,  and  preened  themselves, 
thinking  of  the  mating-time  and  the  nests  in  the  safe- 
swaying  trees,  and  by  night,  in  shadow  of  the  woods, 
the  shy  beasts  began  to  prowl  again.  The  stir  and 
whisper  of  spring  broke  the  long  silence  of  winter,  and 
in  the  very  sky  itself,  after  the  frozen  brilliance  of  the 
frost,  the  white  fleecy  clouds  seemed  to  rustle  as  they 
sailed  across  the  blue,  even  as  their  shadows  whispered 
as  they  passed  over  the  earth.  Spring  entered  into 
the  hearts  and  brains  of  men,  and  schemes  and  new 
hopes  awoke;  they  went  more  briskly  about  their  busi- 
ness, and,  as  golden  day  succeeded  golden  day,  Edith 
again  made  progress  and  fought  more  vigorously  with  her 


SHEAVES  375 

foe,  and  again  did  more  than  stay  its  advance,  making 
it  retreat. 

Hugh's  birthday  came  on  the  last  day  of  the  month, 
and  for  the  past  fortnight  during  which  she  had  been 
progressing  favourably,  she  had  racked  her  brain  to 
think  of  a  suitable  present  for  him.  She  had  also  racked 
her  brain  to  find  reasons  which  would  make  him  go  to 
England  for  a  few  weeks,  and  see  his  friends,  and 
refresh  himself  generally.  She  had  tried  many  such  with 
out  bringing  conviction  to  him;  she  had  told  him  that 
selfishly  and  for  her  own  sake  she  longed  for  him  to  go  to 
Mannington  and  see  how  it  looked.  Nobody  else  but 
he  could  bring  her  a  real  report  of  it,  for  he  only,  besides 
herself,  knew  what  Mannington  meant.  Peggy  some- 
times wrote  of  it,  but  Peggy  said  it  looked  charming, 
and  that  the  river  was  full,  and  that  the  beeches  were 
beginning  to  come  out.  That  was  all  futile;  it  did  not 
mean  anything.  Then,  again,  one  day  Hugh  had  tooth- 
ache, and  she  implored  him  just  to  run  over  to  London 
and  get  his  teeth  looked  at.  Instead,  with  a  rueful 
face  indeed,  he  went  down  to  the  village  and  had  the 
offending  tooth  pulled  out  by  a  cabinet-maker  with  a 
strong  wrist. 

But  eventually  she  hit  on  a  plan,  combining  his  birth- 
day present  with  a  lure  to  lead  him  home,  and  wrote  to 
Messrs.  Thomas  Cook,  from  whom,  the  day  before  his 
birthday,  she  received  a  small  packet,  in  a  neat  green 
cloth  cover,  and  she  went  through  the  contents.  Yes, 
that  was  all  right.  First  class  Davos  to  Sargans,  to  Zurich, 
to  Bale,  to  Paris,  to  Calais  or  Boulogne  (how  thoughtful 
of  Mr.  Cook!),  to  Dover  or  Folkestone,  to  London.  Also 
London  to  Mannington.  And  returns  available  for  thirty 
days  from  date  of  issue.  Only  thirty?  She  had  meant 
to  say  forty-five.  He  must  start  without  any  delay. 


376  SHEAVES 

She  slipped  the  packet  into  an  envelope,  sealed  it, 
and  wrote  a  little  birthday  inscription  outside,  directing 
that  it  was  to  be  given  him  when  he  was  called  in  the 
morning  with  his  other  letters.  This  was  artful,  for 
she  herself  did  not  appear  till  lunch;  he  would  have 
had  several  hours  to  think  about  it  in,  with  the  hard, 
convincing  sight  of  the  tickets  themselves  before  him. 
But  the  evening  before  she  could  not  help  alluding  to  the 
fact  that  she  had  a  present  for  him. 

"I  couldn't  think  of  one  for  ever  so  long,"  she  said. 
"But  I  thought  at  last  of  the  one  thing  you 
really  wanted." 

"Oh,  I  want  to  guess;  may  I  guess?" 

"Yes,  as  long  as  you  like,  and  I  shall  say  'no'  whether 
you  guess  right  or  wrong." 

"Shall  I  like  it?"  asked  Hugh. 

Edith  considered. 

"Yes;  very  much  indeed,"  she  said.  "It  will  also 
be  extremely  good  for  you." 

"Anything  to  do  with  England?"  asked  Hugh  with 
horrible  acuteness.  Edith  had  said  before  that  a  trip 
to  England  would  do  him  good;  also  that  he  would 
like  it. 

"No,  nothing  whatever,"  said  she,  with  an  unconcern 
that  put  him  off  the  scent.  And  with  that  really  solid 
lie  to  her  credit  in  the  book  of  doom,  she  retreated  from 
the -subject,  masking  her  retreat  by  continued  appeals 
to  him  to  go  away  even  if  only  for  a  week  or  two,  until 
from  her  persistence  on  the  subject  it  was  no  longer 
possible  to  suspect  that  her  present  had  anything  to  do 
with  England. 

Before  Edith  went  to  bed,  and  after  the  picquet  was 
finished,  she  and  Hugh  always  had  a  little  good-night 
talk.  During  those  weeks  of  estrangement — for  they 


SHEAVES  377 

seemed  now  no  less  than  that — which  had  come  to  so 
abrupt  an  end  a  few  weeks  ago,  it  was  the  absence  or, 
if  attempted,  the  complete  failure  of  the  good-night 
talks  that  both  had  missed  almost  more  than  anything. 
Edith  now  alluded  to  those  days  with  great  frankness 
as  my  "devil-days,"  which  exactly  expressed  what  she 
meant.  To-night  she  announced  that  the  good-night 
talk  would  be  a  few  words  only,  for  she  was  gloriously 
sleepy  without  being  tired,  an  ideal  state  of  things.  The 
few  words,  however,  were  carefully  directed  toward  the 
morrow.  If  things  went  on  as  she  hoped  they  con- 
ceivably might,  there  would  be  no  good-night  talk 
to-morrow. 

"Oh,  I've  had  such  a  good  day,  Hughie,"  she  said, 
"and  that  makes  three  weeks  of  good  days  now;  they 
have  lasted  longer  than  the  devil-days,  do  you  know? 
But  the  devil-days  seemed  longer.  Think,  April  is  all 
but  over,  and,  'Oh,  to  be  in  England.'  Next  April 
perhaps.  But  think;  the  daffodil  weather,  and  all  the 
daffodils  in  the  copse  looking  like  the  sparkle  of  the  sun 
on  green  water.  Oh,  why  are  you  so  selfish  in  stopping 
here  when  you  might  go  back  and  look  at  them,  and 
tell  me  about  them.  Poor  Peggy!  She  once  said  that 
she  liked  doable  daffodils  best.  I  prayed  for  her  especially 
that  night." 

Hugh  laughed. 

"  But  I  like  you  best,"  he  said. 

"That  is  why  you  ought  to  go  back,  since  I  wish  it," 
she  said. 

"And  leave  you  alone?"  he  asked.  "Not  very 
likely." 

"No,  I'm  afraid  it  isn't.  I  think,  do  you  know,  that 
I  have  a  soured  nature.  I  don't  want  to  have  anybody 
else  here.  I  want  to  have  the  pleasure  of  getting  better 


378  SHEAVES 

again  in  the  way  I  am  doing,  all  to  myself.  Even  if 
Peggy  was  here,  even  Peggy,  I  should  have  to  share  it 
with  her.  There's  a  depth  of  depravity!  And  I  don't 
want  to  share  it  with  you.  I  wish  you  would  go  away, 
and  let  me  give  you  a  surprise  when  you  came  back. 
That's  what  I  really  want.  I  want  you  to  walk  up  the 
path,  after  an  absence,  and  say,  'Hullo,  who  is  this 
blooming  young  person?  Why,  it's  my  wife!'  Hugh, 
it  would  be  such  awful  fun!  And  now  I  am  going  to 
bed.  The  subject  is  closed.  If  you  won't  go,  you 
won't.  Good-night,  my  darling.  Yes,  the  hand  only, 
please,  at  a  respectful  distance." 

Edith  was  delighted  with  her  diplomacy,  and  thought 
how  clever  she  was  as  she  went  to  bed.  It  was  clear  to 
her  at  once  that  the  fact  that  she  had  said  the  subject 
was  definitely  dismissed  had  an  effect  on  Hugh.  Hither- 
to he  had  always  dismissed  it,  feeling  certain  that  she 
would  re-open  it.  It  had  evidently  made  an  impression 
on  him  to  know  that  she  would  not.  And  to-morrow 
he  would  receive  her  present.  Oh,  it  was  a  good  chance! 

He  received  his  letters  next  morning  as  usual.  His 
man  dumped  them  down  on  his  bed,  and  said  it  was 
half-past  eight.  And,  as  usual,  Hugh  said,  "Oh,  rot!" 
and  felt  for  them.  There  happened  to  be  only  one, 
rather  fat,  and  in  his  lazy  morning  manner  he  looked 
at  the  address  before  opening  it.  There  it  was,  "For 
my  dear  Hugh  on  his  birthday,  with  her  best  wishes. 
To  be  taken  immediately." 

He  tore  open  the  envelope,  which  she  had  sealed  with 
ingenious  completeness,  still  not  guessing.  And  then 
he  saw  the  neat  little  green  cover. 

The  servant  was  pouring  out  his  bath. 

"Oh,  just  leave  it,"  said  Hugh,  "and  ask  Mrs. 
Grainger's  maid  to  ask  if  I  can  see  her  a  moment." 


SHEAVES  379 

This  was  tmgrammatical,  but  intelligible.  Edith's 
plan  had  had  only  one  defect,  and  that  on  the  safe  side. 
She  had  thought  that  he  would  think  it  over.  But  he 
only  thought,  and  that  instantaneously,  of  the  good- 
night talk.  And  here  was  her  present. 

He  put  on  a  big  fur  coat  that  did  duty  as  a  dressing- 
gown  and  went  to  her  room. 

Her  breakfast  was  already  come,  and  she  was  sitting 
up  in  bed,  bright-eyed,  refreshed  with  sleep. 

"Oh,  Hughie,  how  nice  of  you  to  come  to  see  me  early 
on  your  birthday!"  she  said. 

"You  wicked  woman!"  said  Hugh. 

"Why,  for  instance?" 

"Because  you  hit  below  the  belt.  Because  you 
appealed  to  sentiment  last  night.  Because  you  knocked 
me  down  with  that,  and  kick  me  this  morning.  It 
isn't  fair." 

Edith  looked  at  him;  her  face  was  really  troubled. 

"Ah!  tear  them  up,  Hughie,"  she  said;  "throw  them 
away." 

He  sat  down  on  the  end  of  her  bed. 

"I  can't,"  he  said.  "You  gave  me  them.  I  will  go 
to-day.  Oh,  gladly  too,  lovingly;  but  it  was  rather  a 
shock.  I  want  to  go  now,  as  I  see  you  want  it,  and  have 
made  it  your  birthday  present  to  me.  Thanks,  thanks 
most  awfully!" 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

CANON  ALINGTON  was  sitting  opposite  his 
wife,  telling  her  and  Mrs.  Owen  about  the  outside 
edge.  Ambrose  and  Perpetua  had  been  reading  their 
books  while  their  elders  dined,  but  at  the  mention  of  out- 
side edge  they  both  looked  up,  keeping  their  thin  little 
forefingers  in  the  place.  Ambrose  knew  about  the  out- 
side edge  too,  and  from  Davos  he  had  repeatedly 
written  to  Perpetua  about  it. 

<:Form,  form,"  said  Dick;  "anyone  can  do  these 
things,  but  the  difficulty  is  to  do  them  rightly.  I 
myself  have  much  to  learn  yet." 

The  sentiment  was  humble  and  true,  but  the  tone  was 
bitter.  Canon  Alington  had  not  got  over  the  recollec- 
tion of  a  morning  at  Davos  when  he  attempted  to  gain 
admittance  to  the  English  Skating  Club.  Since  that 
fatal  day  there  had  been  severe  frosts  in  Wiltshire,  and 
he  had  started  the  Mannington  Skating  Club,  and  had 
been  an  assiduous  instructor.  Aspirants  who  wished 
to  skate  in  a  particular  roped-off  piece  of  ice  had  to  pass 
a  test.  Ambrose  had  passed  it;  but  there  was  no  need 
for  himself  to  pass  it,  since  he  was  the  judge  who 
decided  whether  others  could  do  so.  He  was  rather  a 
strict  judge;  he  insisted  on  "form." 

Ambrose  chipped  in — 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Owen,"  he  said,  " papa  skated  better  than 
anybody  at  Davos!  I  used  to  watch  him  rather  than 
skate  myself.  And  wasn't  it  a  shame 

Canon  Alington  interrupted  his  son.  It  was  better 
that  the  disclosure  should  come  from  himself. 

380 


SHEAVES  381 

"But  the  Olympians  would  have  none  of  me,"  he 
said.  "Hugh  passed,  Lady  Rye  passed,  even  Daisy 
passed.  But  Ambrose  and  I  were  the  poor  relations. 
Ha,  ha!  I  don't  think  that  it  damages  us.  We  skate 
still.  Davos  is  rather  a  cliquey  place.  Given  a  return 
of  good  old  English  winters,  I  can  see  Mannington 
rivalling  any  Swiss  resort.  Once  back  and  forward, 
and  forward  inside,  eh,  Ambrose?" 

Mrs.  Owen  wrung  her  hands.  It  was  in  the  manner 
of  a  peal  of  bells  that  she  did  this.  She  pulled  all  the 
fingers  in  turn. 

"  I  shall  never,  never  forget  seeing  you  skate,  Canon 
Alington,"  she  said.  "So  swift,  so  commanding!  And 
does  Mr.  Hugh  skate  well,  too?" 

"The  makings  of  a  skater,"  said  the  Canon.  "He 
wants  perhaps  a  little  more  coaching.  Freedom — • 
perhaps  a  little  freedom  is  lacking." 

"I  thought  he  didn't  skate  nearly  so  well  as  papa," 
said  Ambrose  shrilly.  "I  thought  nobody  skated  so 
well  as  papa." 

The  door  underneath  the  motto  "They  sat  down  to 
eat  and  drink"  opened,  and  Hugh,  supposed  to  be  at 
Davos,  came  in. 

"I  apologise,"  he  said,  "but  I  found  they  hadn't 
received  my  telegram  at  Chalkpits,  and  there  was  noth- 
ing to  eat.  I  wanted  something.  How  are  you,  Agnes? 
Do  give  me  some  cold  beef." 

He  made  his  salutations. 

"And  Mrs.  Grainger — Edith?"  asked  his  brother- 
in-law.  (He  had  always  alluded  to  her  like  this  since 
the  dreadful  days  of  the  Nelson  letters.  "Mrs.  Grain- 
ger" marked  the  moral'  difference  that  there  was 
between  them,  "Edith"  showed  that  blood — though 
there  wasn't  any — -was  thicker  than  water.) 


382  SHEAVES 

Hugh,  however,  was  not  trained  to  these  niceties. 

"Oh,  didn't  you  know."  he  said,  "though,  after  all, 
how  should  you?  She's  at  Davos  still;  getting  on 
awfully  well  again.  I  came  away  for  a  jaunt." 

Ambrose  never  went  wrong  according  to  the  true 
standard. 

"Oh,  Uncle  Hugh,"  he  said,  "did  you  leave  Aunt 
Edith  there  alone?" 

Even  the  light  on  his  spectacles  looked  incredulous. 
Hugh  became  flippant. 

"Yes,  she  wants  you  to  go  out  to  keep  her  company," 
he  said,  "as  I  ran  away." 

Canon  Alington,  as  he  was  so  often  told,  had  infinite 
tact.  He .  saw  at  once  that  something  dreadful  must 
have  happened;  everyone,  indeed,  except  perhaps  Per- 
petua,  saw  that,  and  he  changed  the  subject  with  great 
address.  That  was  the  advantage  of  being  a  man  of 
the  world,  for  there  was  no  situation  in  it  which  he  did 
not  feel  himself  equal  to  grappling  with,  and,  if  neces- 
sary, throwing.  The  subject  had  to  be  changed;  easily, 
naturally,  he  changed  it. 

"You  ought  to  have  come  back  two  months  ago, 
Hugh,"  he  said,  "and  have  instructed  us  in  the  Davos 
style.  I  but  borrowed  a  reflected  light  from  you.  We 
had  three  weeks'  skating  after  I  returned,  and  I  think 
we  may  say  that  the  standard  and  form  in  these  parts 
is  improved." 

Mrs.  Owen  was  thrilled;  to  her  acute  and  active  mind 
the  whole  situation  was  apparent.  Hugh  had  appeared 
suddenly  in  Mannington  without  his  wife,  without 
having  let  even  his  sister  know  he  was  coming.  And 
he  said  she  was  better,  was  going  on  excellently !  Some- 
thing disagreeable,  she  rejoiced  to  think,  must  have 
happened.  It  might  only  be  a  temporary  affair,  a  quarrel 


SHEAVES  383 

of  no  importance,  but  in  that  case  Hugh  would  hardly 
have  come  back  suddenly  like  this  without  a  word  to 
anybody.  Agnes,  too,  was  looking  awkward  and  dis- 
tressed. And  how  full  of  bitterness  was  Hugh's  remark 
to  Ambrose  that  Edith  wanted  him  to  go  out  and  keep 
her  company!  Evidently  also  Canon  Alington  had 
come  to  the  same  conclusion,  for  there  was  no  mistaking 
the  point  of  the  masterly  way  in  which  he  changed  the 
conversation.  What  tact!  If  everyone  behaved  so 
beautifully  there  would  never  be  any  scandal  at  all. 
She  felt  that  the  imperfections  of  the  world  had  their 
consoling  points. 

Dinner  was  already  far  advanced,  but  a  plate  of 
something  had  been  brought  for  Hugh,  and  he  was  eat- 
ing it  with  what  seemed  like  appetite.  But  Mrs.  Owen 
knew  better;  it  was  a  pretence  of  appetite  probably. 
She  had  heard  of  that  before.  Besides,  people  who  were 
going  to  be  hung  at  8  A.  M.  often  ate  excellent  break- 
fasts. Hugh,  so  to  speak,  had  been  hung  forty-eight 
hours  ago,  so  this  was  less  remarkable  a  feat. 

But  for  the  life  of  her  she  could  not  guess  for  certain, 
to  her  own  satisfaction,  what  had  happened.  Months 
ago,  when  Canon  Alington  had  returned,  he  had  an- 
nounced the  incredibly  swift  recovery  of  his  sister-in- 
law  (meaning  Agnes's  sister-in-law),  and  had  expressed 
a  grave  but  cheerful  doubt  whether  she  had  ever  suffered 
from  consumption  at  all.  "She  will  be  well  by  May," 
he  had  said.  It  was  May  now. 

Oh,  yes,  there  was  something  below  these  cards,  and 
her  poisonous  provincial  mind  promised  itself  a  treat 
of  some  kind.  Already  she  was  saying  to  herself  that 
she  never  had  liked  "those  Graingers." 

But  there  was  a  limitation  clause  here.  She  might 
still  be  devoted  to  "those  Graingers"  if  this  estrange- 


384  SHEAVES 

ment,  whatever  it  was,  was  not  disgraceful,  especially 
if  she  was  confided  in,  if  she  knew  first.  She  determined 
to  do  her  very  best  to  know  first.  That  made  a  lot  of 
difference.  Perhaps  Hugh  would  confide  in  her  if  she 
showed  how  understanding,  how  sympathetic,  how 
womanly  (in  the  best  sense  of  that  word)  she  was. 

"Dear  Mr.  Hugh,"  she  said,  "but  how  we  have  missed 
you  and  your  dear  wife!  Mannington  has  not  been 
Mannington  without  you.  She  will  soon  rejoin  you 
here,  I  trust?" 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Hugh;  "she  will  be  at  Davos,  at  least 
I  hope  so,  all  the  summer." 

To  the  mind  of  the  real  scandal-monger  no  remark 
is  innocent.  The  trained  vision  can  find  concealment 
and  equivocation  everywhere.  "At  least  I  hope  so"- 
what  did  that  mean?  It  looked  as  if  he  did  not  know 
his  wife's  movements,  did  not  care,  perhaps.  Hugh's 
innocence  appeared  probable  to  the  poisonous  mind, 
and  the  case  began  to  look  grave  against  Edith.  Mrs. 
Owen  began  to  recollect  also  that  she  had  never  liked 
"that  Mrs.  Grainger,"  who  had  always  held  herself  so 
much  aloof.  No  wonder.  But  to  her  broad-minded 
view  the  innocent  should  never  suffer  with  the  guilty. 
Hugh  should  not  lose  his  friends,  as  far  as  she  was 
concerned. 

"You  are  here  for  some  time,  Hugh?"  asked  his 
sister. 

"I  hardly  know,"  said  he;  "it  depends  on  other 
people,  and  on  circumstances.  I  shall  ask  people  to 
come  down  here,  and  if  they  won't  ("If  they  won't!" 
echoed  Mrs.  Owen  to  herself)  I  shall  go  away.  I  can't 
live  at  Chalkpits  all  alone.  All  the  same  I  could  be  very 
busy.  I  should  fish  and  ride.  I  have  to  practise  too, 
as  I  have  a  long  engagement  at  Covent  Garden  in  the 


SHEAVES  385 

summer.  Edith  begged  me  not  to  give  it  up.  Of 
course  I  may  have  to." 

Mrs.  Owen's  suspicions  grew  darker.  She  was  sure 
Edith  had  done  something  dreadful.  How  gallant 
Hugh  was  about  it!  She  was  sure  she  could  have 
behaved  just  like  that,  if  the  opportunity  had  come  in 
her  way.  But  it  never  had.  She  thought  that  Hugh 
was  almost  certain  to  confide  in  her. 

After  dinner  the  usual  curriculum  was  to  be  expected. 
Ambrose  and  Perpetua,  since  Mrs.  Owen  was  here,  were 
to  sit  up  to  hear  her  sing  one  song,  after  which  they 
would  go  to  bed,  when,  since  there  were  four  present, 
the  others  would  play  bridge  for  the  usual  stakes,  which 
were  beans.  All  four  players  v/ere  given  a  little  bag  of 
dried  beans,  two  hundred  in  number.  At  the  end  of 
each  rubber  Canon  Alington  always  said,  "Now  for 
reckoning  day,"  and  you  paid  your  opponent  (dividing 
the  points  by  ten)  the  beans  he  had  won,  or  he  paid  you 
the  beans  he  had  lost.  At  the  end  of  the  play  you 
counted  up  your  beans  and  announced  the'total.  There 
were  congratulations  to  the  fortunate  winners,  con- 
dolence for  the  losers.  The  beans  were  then  recounted 
and  put  away  in  the  bags  out  of  which  they  had  been 
taken.  Bridge  was  far  too  good  a  game,  such  was  the 
pronouncement  of  Canon  Alington,  to  make  it  necessary 
to  play  for  stakes.  To-night  he  added — 

"You  might  as  well  skate  for  stakes,  eh,  Hugh?" 

And  Hugh  privately  thought  that  his  brother-in-law 
had  much  better  not.  So  he  only  said  "Quite  so." 

To-night,  however,  there  was  a  little  delay  in  begin- 
ning the  curriculum,  for  Mrs.  Owen  at  first  positively 
refused  to  sing  at  all  unless  Hugh  stopped  his  ears,  for 
"she  daren't,"  but  abated  these  hard  conditions  and 
consented  to  give  them  some  bit  of  Galahad's  diary  if 


386  SHEAVES 

Hugh  would  sing  afterward.  So  she  sang  the  famous 
second  adventure,  while  Agnes  closed  her  eyes  because 
she  listened  best  so,  and  the  Canon  beat  time  with  a 
paper-knife,  and  Ambrose  and  Perpetua  turned  over, 
their  faces  glued  to  the  music.  After  which,  though 
marching  orders  had  been  issued  for  them,  they  were 
allowed  to  stop  and  hear  Uncle  Hugh  perform.  But 
it  was  rather  a  handicap  in  that  house  to  sing  after  Mrs. 
Owen. 

Bridge  was  unusually  exciting  that  night  because  of  the 
wonderful  winning  power  of  Mrs.  Owen,  and  had  it  not 
been  that  she  revoked  once  in  no  trumps,  probably  the 
rest  of  the  world  would  have  been  bankrupt,  and  what 
Canon  Alington  called  the  "gold  reserve" — meaning 
another  bag  of  beans — would  have  had  to  be  put  into 
circulation  in  order  to  enable  the  game  to  proceed.  She 
made,  too,  quite  the  right  remark  when,  on  finding  she 
was  four  hundred  and  twenty-eight  to  the  good,  she 
said,  "How  dreadful  if  we  had  been  playing  for 
money!" 

Then,  since  the  inexorable  hour  of  half-past  ten  had 
arrived,  she  gathered  up  her  music  and  ptit  on  her 
goloshes,  for  a  little  walk  was  so  pleasant  after  these 
exciting  games,  and  started  home  under  Hugh's  escort, 
for  her  house  lay  between  Chalkpits  and  the  Vicarage. 
This  was  exactly  what  she  wanted;  she  would  see  if 
womanliness  would  not  lead  to  confidence. 

"Such  a  treat  to  hear  you  sing,  Mr.  Hugh,"  she  said 
as  they  set  off,  "and  such  a  pleasure  to  know  that  per- 
haps we  may  hear  you  in  town  again!  You  think  there 
is  still  a  chance?" 

"Of  course,  it  must  depend  on  my  wife,"  said  he. 

Mrs.  Owen  gave  a  great  sigh,  and  said  nothing  for  a 
moment.  Then  the  stars  gave  her  an  inspiration ;  they 


SHEAVES  387 

had  given  the  same  to  Galahad  when  he  said  good- 
night. 

"How  peaceful  starlight  is!"  she  observed.  "It 
makes  one  see  how  infinitesimal  our  own  troubles  are 
when  one  sees  the  immensity  of  space." 

Hugh's  reply  was  bitter;  oh,  she  was  sure  it  was  bitter. 

"Oh,  do  you  think  it  makes  much  difference  to  a 
toothache  if  you  remember  that  Sirius  is  billions  and 
billions  of  miles  away?"  he  asked. 

Mrs.  Owen  nearly  laid  the  touch  of  a  fairy  hand  on 
his  arm.  She  probably  would  quite  have  done  so  if  it 
was  not  holding  up  her  dress. 

"Poor  Mr.  Hugh!"  she  said  softly. 

Hugh  was  rather  touched;  he  did  not  like  his  com- 
panion, but  there  was  something  genuine  in  the  sim- 
plicity of  this. 

"Thanks,"  he  said. 

They  had  come  to  Mrs.  Owen's  gate  by  this  time,  and 
she  stopped  a  moment. 

"  If  I  can  do  anything,  you  will  tell  me,  will  you  not? " 
she  said.  "And  if  people  ask  me  why  you  have  come 
back  alone,  what  shall  I  say?" 

"Why,  that  I  have  come  back  for  a  few  weeks  to  see 
my  friends,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  I  see — yes.     Good-night!" 

Hugh  walked  on  some  hundred  yards,  pondering  a 
little  over  this  rather  cryptic  sentence,  but  thinking 
mainly  of  Davos.  Then  a  sudden  thought  struck  him; 
but  the  moment  it  really  took  shape  he  laughed  at 
it.  There  were  limits  to  the  absurdity  even  of  people 
who  had  thought  Edith's  paper  on  the  newly 
discovered  Nelson  letters  unfit  for  the  digestion  of  the 
Literific. 

It   was  daffodil-weather  next   day,   and   he   spent  a 


388  SHEAVES 

delightful  morning,  noting  down  what  he  knew  Edith 
would  care  to  hear  about,  seeing  with  her  eyes  as  far  as 
he  could  and  hearing  with  her  delicate  sense.  Till 
mid-day  or  thereabout  he  prowled  round  the  gardens, 
and  up  on  to  the  down  where  she  had  revealed  Andrew 
Robb,  and  found  everywhere  the  intimate  thrill  of  home. 
It  was  all  part  of  him  and  her,  as  he  had  once  said  to 
her,  and  while  it  was  newly  fresh  he  went  indoors  again 
to  write  her  word  of  it — 

Yes,  my  darling,  it  is  daffodil-weather  on  my  first  morning 
here,  and  I,  too,  prayed  for  Peggy — oh!  by  the  way,  I  have  just 
heard  from  her,  and  she  and  Daisy  are  coming  down  this  after- 
noon, so  I  shan't  be  alone  for  a  single  day — when  I  went  into  the 
copse  above  the  Chalkpit.  There  they  were,  millions  and  mil- 
lions, like  splashes  of  sun.  And  the  beeches  had  that  sort  of 
green  powder  on  their  stems  which  only  appears  in  spring  (do 
you  know  it?),  and  birds,  birds;  you  never  saw  such  a  business. 
All  the  gentlemen  were  running  after  the  ladies,  and  the  ladies 
were  pretending  to  run  away,  but*  they  never  ran  far.  Above, 
the  down  was  still  gray,  but  I  searched  among  the  old  grass,  the 
way  you  showed  me,  and  the  tiny  fresh  shoots  and  spears  were 
just  beginning  to  come  up.  Oh!  I  dined  at  Dick's  last  night, 
because  they  hadn't  got  my  telegram  (I  don't  think  I  sent  it, 
by  the  way),  and  there  wasn't  anything  to  eat  (here,  you  under- 
stand). Mrs.  Owen  was  there.  She  sang  Galahad's  "Good 
Night."  (Oh!  I  forgot — on  the  down  I  threw  my  hat  in  the 
air  as  I  did  when  you  told  me  you  were  A.  R.,  just  at  the  same 
place.  That's  all;  I  thought  you  would  like  to  know.)  Yes, 
she  sang  Galahad's  "Good  Night."  GALAHAD'S  "Gooo  NIGHT." 
Lor'!  Then  she  revoked  at  Bridge,  which  we  played  at  for  beans. 
Then  I  walked  home  with  her,  and  we  talked  about  the  stars, 
and  how  calm  they  were.  What  a  fiend!  They  like  her  so 
much,  too. 

What  of  the  garden?  Well,  it's  you,  just  as  the  down  and  the 
daffodils  are.  But  I  don't  like  the  steep  bank  up  to  the  broad 
walk  from  the  tennis  court.  (Peggy  brings  George  Alexander 
Hugh  with  her,  and  says  he's  as  long  as  his  name  now).  All 
over  the  elms  the  leaves  are  bursting,  and  the  hawthorn  hedge 


SHEAVES  389 

is  covered  with  little  bunches  of  green,  just  like  the  way  fire 
bursts  out  from  squibs.  And  all  morning  one  tune  rang  in  my 
head,  "Meine  Seele." 

Then  I  went  down  to  the  water-meadow.  (By  the  way,  I 
sang  that  last  night,  and  told  them  it  was  Tschaikowsky,  and  Mrs. 
Owen  said  she  knew  it  so  well.  What  a  liar!)  And  I  stepped 
into  an  enormous  bog-hole  right  up  to  my  knee.  Heaps  of 
forget-me-nots,  and  the  water  as  blue.  I  shall  try  to  get  a 
trout  this  evening;  no  use  before  about  sunset.  What  a  silly 
letter ;  full  of  little  things. 

Oh!  Edith,  your  room.  I  could  have  howled.  I  wish  you 
weren't  so  blooming  essential  to  every  place  we  have  been  in 
together.  Yet  it  wouldn't  be  you  if  you  weren't,  and  it  wouldn't 
be  the  place,  either.  But  your  room  needed  you  most  of  all. 
I  sat  in  your  chair  for  ages,  and  in  the  blotting-pad  between 
the  leaves  there  was  tucked  away  a  half-sheet  of  paper  with 
"Household  Books"  written  very  neatly  at  the  top.  Such 
method,  and  no  result!  Not  another  word.  I  wonder  if  you 
paid  them,  even. 

I  had  a  splendid  journey — a  few  moments  of  shrill  expostula- 
tion at  Basle,  because  they  wanted  me  to  throw  away  some  wax 
matches,  but  my  powerful  mixture  of  French,  English,  German 
and  a  little  operatic  Italian  like  " Lasciate  mi"  reduced  them. 
And  all  the  time  that  the  miles  were  lengthening  out  between 
us,  the  thread  never  broke,  and  it  reaches  all  the  way  to  me  here, 
the  golden  thread.  By  now,  too,  you  will  have  written  me 
a  long  letter  all  about  yourself,  and  it's  coming  as  quick  as  it 
can,  the  sluggard! 

Edith,  it's  too  killing  for  words.  I  am  quite  sure  that  Mrs. 
Owen  thinks  that  you  and  I  have  -quarrelled.  My  sudden 
presence  here  alone  is  felt  to  want  explanation.  I  think  I 
must  be  right  about  it.  I  do  hope  so.  If  I'm  right  Mrs.  Owen 
will  certainly  pump  me.  I  shall  lead  her  on,  o'er  moor  and  fen 
and  crag,  until  she  toppies  into  the  torrent.  Oh!  that's  profane. 
Sorry!  When  she  has  definitely  committed  herself,  and  I  think 
she  will,  I  shall  tell  her  what  I  think  in  polite  language.  It 
occurred  to  me  last  night,  when  I  tumbled  in  upon  them  all 
without  warning,  that  they  thought  something  was  odd. 
Then  when  I  said  "Good-night"  to  her  at  her  gate,  she 
said  she  would  be  so  willing  to  help.  This  morning  I 
have  been  thinking  it  over,  and  I  believe  she  must  have 


390  SHEAVES 

meant  something.     Dick  was  slightly  more  parochial,  too,  when 
I  went  away. 

Oh!  how  I  long  for  you.     That's  all.  HUGH. 

P.  S. — Mrs.  Owen!     Mrs.  Owen!   !   ! 

Hugh  addressed  his  letter  and  rang  the  bell,  saying, 
it  must  go  at  once,  as  is  the  habit  of  people  who  wish 
their  letters  to  arrive  at  their  destinations  irrespective 
of  the  time  at  which  posts  start.  Had  he  known  what 
was  going  on  within  a  few  hundred  yards  of  him  he 
would  probably  have  delayed  it. 

Mrs.  Owen  had  awoke  that  morning  with  a  strong 
consciousness  of  some  duty  to  be  done.  For  the  moment 
she  could  not  determine  in  what  direction  that  duty  lay. 
As  far  as  she  knew,  there  was  no  kindness  left  unper- 
formed, no  remission  of  her  sunbeam  efforts.  (In  the 
earlier  days  of  their  married  life  Mr.  Owen  had  habitually 
called  her  "Sunbeam."  He  now  called  her  S.  B.)  Then 
she  remembered.  She  got  up  at  once. 

It  was  wise  in  such  cases  to  take  the  worst  possible 
view,  especially  if  you  are  going  to  be  helpful.  That 
saved  shocks  afterward,  though  sometimes  (she  did  not 
think  this)  it  entailed  disappointments.  "Hope  for 
the  best,  but  prepare  for  the  worst  and  be  helpful"  was 
a  favourite  motto  of  hers,  which  also  was  a  condensation 
of  one  of  Canon  Alington's  sermons.  The  phrase  at 
once  suggested  to  her  the  next  step.  She  would  "drop 
in  "  at  St.  Olaf's  with  the  seeds  which  she  had  promised — 
had  she  not? — to  give  him.  And  then  she  would  te 
really  diplomatic  and  also  true  to  herself.  She  would 
sound  him;  she  would  find  out  whether  some  such 
dreadful  idea  had  occurred  to  him  as  had  occurred  to 
her.  If  so,  they  would  hold  sweet  converse  together. 
If  not,  she  would  erase  all  these  terrible  surmises  from 
her  mind.  If  he  had  not  thought  of  that  (she  did  not 


SHEAVES  391 

quite  know  what  "that"  was,  but  it  was  scandalous), 
she  would  cease  to  think  of  "that"  at  all,  and  demand 
even  when  alone,  no  explanation  of  Hugh's  mysterious 
appearance.  The  phrase  "to  thine  own  self  be  true" 
gave  her  enterprise  the  light  of  mission-work.  But 
Shakespeare,  perhaps,  did  not  reflect,  and  certainly  she 
did  not,  that  if  you  are  true  to  people  like  Mrs.  Owen, 
the  result  to  others  whom  you  cannot  be  false  to,  is  not 
a  very  happy  or  distinguished  performance. 

The  technique  of  her  plan  was  brilliantly  successful. 
She  chose  her  hour  well,  the  hour  when  (probably) 
Canon  Alington  would  have  finished  his  letters,  and  be 
doing  something  strenuous  in  the  garden,  and  when 
Agnes  would  be  still  employed  indoors,  the  "Martha- 
hour,"  as  her  husband  called  it,  though  he  did  not  mean 
that  he  was  doing  the  better  part.  There  he  was,  sure 
enough,  hatless  and  coatless,  for  he  was  not  the  sort  of 
man  who  thought  it  necessary  to  appear  always  in 
clerical  garb,  chopping  dowTn  a  tree  in  the  paddock. 
Her  foot  was  noiseless  on  the  grass,  and  he  did  not  see 
her  till  she  had  approached  quite  near.  But  she  saw 
him;  there  was  not  the  excellent  physical  vigour  that 
usually  hung  about  him.  He  was  listless,  sad.  And 
the  moment  he  saw  her  he  put  down  his  axe,  instead  of 
giving  a  few  more  violent  strokes,  which  would  have 
been  characteristic  of  him. 

"I  have  brought  you  the  seeds  I  spoke  of,"  she  said. 
"They  ought  to  be  sown  now,  and  the  plants  will  be 
quite  hardy  by  the  autumn." 

He  took  the  packet. 

"Thanks,"  he  said  absently — "thanks." 

A  dreadful  silence.  Mrs.  Owen  told  herself  that  her 
errand  had  not  been  in  vain.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she 
did  not  know  what  the  seeds  were.  Nor  did  he.  She 


393  SHEAVES 

was  determined,  however,  that  he  should  begirt.    That 
was  only  right.     He  began. 

"How  did  you  think  Hugh  Grainger  was  looking? 
he  asked.     "We  were  both  most  surprised  at  his  sud- 
denly appearing  like  that.     Did  he  look  to  you  well — 
happy?" 

Mrs.  Owen  was  nothing  if  not  simple. 

"No,"  she  said. 

Canon  Alington  put  on  his  coat. 

"You  can  give  me  ten  minutes?"  he  asked.  "We 
can  never  forget,  Agnes  and  I,  the  service  you  did  us 
about  those  dreadful  Nelson  letters.  And  if  people  do 
one  a  service  one  turns  to  them  again.  So  I  consult 
you;  I  turn  to  you.  Why  has  Hugh  come  back  like 
this?  Why  has  he  left  his  wife  in  Davos?  Mrs.  Owen, 
is  she  at  Davos?" 

It  is  one  of  the  sad  things  of  life,  as  the  poet  Gray  has 
remarked,  that  so  many  flowers  blush  unseen  and  waste 
their  sweetness  on  the  desert  air.  But  it  is  much  sadder 
to  think  how  many  flowers  of  humour  do  the  same, 
owing  to  the  lack  of  that  subtle  quality  in  the  audience. 
Mrs.  Owen  saw  nothing  in  the  least  humorous  in  the 
fact  that  she  and  Canon  Alington  (and  Agnes)  had,  on 
the  bare  fact  of  Hugh's  return,  built  a  whole  tragedy. 
She  had  no  conception  how  ludicrous  she  and  her  pom- 
pous companion  were  being,  she  only  thought  they  were 
striving  to  be  helpful.  It  never  entered  her  head  even 
that  she  was  following  this  up  with  a  sort  of  ghoulish 
gusto  for  scandal,  nor  that,  if  their  surmises  proved  to  be 
completely  unwarranted,  she  would  heave  a  sigh  of 
relief,  and  in  reality  be  much  disappointed.  Instead  of 
realising  this,  she  only  clasped  her  hands  together  and 
turned  her  eyes  upward. 


SHEAVES  393 

"I  will  sacrifice  all  day  if  I  can  help  in  this  dreadful 
business,"  she  said,  tacitly  answering  Canon  Alington's 
question,  and  feeling  already  quite  sure  that  Mrs.  Grain- 
ger was  no  longer  at  Davos.  She  remembered,  too,  the 
position  of  Davos  on  the  map  of  Europe;  it  was  not  so 
very  far  from  the  Italian  lakes,  where  all  sorts  of  dread- 
ful things  constantly  occurred. 

For  one  fleeting  moment  some  glimmering  of  common 
sense  flashed  across  Canon  Alington. 

' '  Do  you  think  we  are  drawing  conclusions  from 
insufficient  data?"  he  asked. 

Such  a  thought  had  never  entered  Mrs.  Owen's  head. 
She  said  so. 

"Then  there  is  but  one  thing  to  be  done,"  said  Canon 
Alington,  "and  that  is  to  go  straight  to  poor  Hugh  and 
put  ourselves  at  his  disposal,  to  help  in  any  way  we  can. 
Perhaps  if  we  convince  him  that  that  is  our  only  object  he 
will  tell  us  what  this  all  means.  It  may  be  only  a  passing 
misunderstanding,  in  which  case  he  ought  to  go  back 
to  his  wife  at  once.  It  may  be  worse  than  that.  But, 
whoever  is  the  culprit,  we  are  agreed  on  our  sole  purpose, 
to  help." 

Their  joint  action  before  in  the  case  of  the  Nelson 
letters  had  been  crowned  with  such  marvellous  success 
that  it  was  soon  agreed  that  they  should  act  in  concert 
again.  Canon  Alington,  it  is  true,  had  not  quite  for- 
gotten yet  a  few  stinging  moments,  when  Hugh  sat  on 
the  stile  on  the  way  back  to  church,  but  he  had  with- 
drawn his  words  and  apologised  that  very  evening,  in  a 
truly  Christian  spirit.  His  brother-in-law,  therefore, 
considered  now  that  those  words  had  not  been  said. 
It  was  agreed,  too,  that  Agnes,  at  present,  at  any  rate, 
need  not  be  mixed  up  in  this  painful  business,  and  with- 
out further  delay  the  two  set  off  for  Chalkpits.  They 


394  SHEAVES 

arrived  soon  after  Hugh  had  posted  his  letter  to  Edith; 
from  his  window  he  saw  their  approach,  he  saw  the 
solemn  purpose  on  their  faces.  This  time  their  mis- 
guided interference  (if  their  errand  should  prove  to  be 
this)  excited  in  him  only  wild,  hilarious  merriment,  and 
for  a  moment  he  hid  his  face  in  a  sofa  cushion  and  shook. 
Then  he  composed  himself.  How  right  Edith  had  been 
before;  how  infinitely  better  it  was  to  be  amused!  He 
fully  intended  to  extract  the  utmost  possible  amusement 
out  of  it.  And  he  would  tell  Peggy  this  time. 

They  were  shown  in,  and  he  received  them  very  gravely. 
His  hair  was  a  little  disordered  from  his  explosion  in  the 
sofa-cushion,  and  Mrs.  Owen  thought  he  looked  very  wild. 

"It  is  kind  of  you  to  come,"  he  said. 

And  they  all  sat  down  together  as  if  by  machinery. 

"Very  kind  of  you  to  come,"  repeated  Hugh. 

The  devil  could  not  have  suggested  to  him  more 
fiendishly  ingenious  words.  It  'was  quite  clear  to  both 
his  visitors  that  he  knew  why  they  had  come.  It  was 
true — he  did. 

Mrs.  Owen  writhed  and  undulated  toward  him.  It 
had  been  settled  that  she  should  speak  first ;  the  womanly 
touch  was  the  thing  to  begin  with,  afterward  the  Church 
would  advise  and  console. 

"Dear  Mr.  Hugh,"  she  said,  "we  only  want  to  help. 
That  is  all  our  object.  If  there  is  anything  we  can  do?" 

Hugh  bit  his  tongue  to  stop  the  sudden  convulsion 
that  nearly  broke  from  him.  This  was  done  so  success- 
fully that  it  sounded  like  a  sob. 

"Tell  us  all  about  it,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  Canon 
Alington.  "Take  your  time.  Or,  would  you  rather 
speak  to  me  alone,  or  to  Mrs.  Owen  alone?" 

"No;  both  of  you,"  said  Hugh. 

"  We  know  nothing  yet,"  said  Dick,  "except  that  there 


SHEAVES  395 

is  something  wrong.  So  just  relieve  our  minds  of  the 
worst  anxiety  first.  Is  she  still  at  Davos?" 

Hugh  sat  quite  still  a  moment,  and  he  had  no  longer 
the  slightest  desire  to  laugh.  He  had  imagined  only 
that  these  two  idiots  had  thought  that  he  and  Edith  had 
had  some  quarrel.  But  slowly  the  meaning  of  that 
question  dawned  on  him.  He  turned  very  red,  then 
very  white. 

"Just  explain  your  question  a  little  more,"  he  said 
quickly.  "Where  else  should  she  be?  Why  should 
she  be  anywhere  else?" 

Then,  luckily  for  everybody,  his  sense  of  humour 
came  to  his  aid.  It  was  the  most  glorious  thing  that 
ever  happened.  And  his  voice  trembled  over  the  next 
question. 

"Answer  me  quickly,"  he  said,  "or  I  shall  burst. 
Did  your  question  imply  that  you  thought  she  had  run 
away,  left  me?" 

Canon  Alington  got  up. 

"We  had  better  be  going,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Owen; 
"we  only  came  to  try  to  help." 

"Oh,  wait  a  minute,"  said  Hugh.  "There  is  plenty 
of  time.  That  occurred  to  you  then,  I  take  it;  that 
was  your  worst  anxiety.  I  will  remove  that  at  once. 
That  being  disposed  of,  I  suppose  you  thought  we  had 
quarrelled.  Edith  and  I!  Quarrelled!  Oh,  Dick,  never 
try  to  make  another  joke  as  long  as  you  live!  You  will 
never,  never  beat  that.  Your  reputation  as  a  humourist 
is  secure.  Don't  spoil  it.  Oh,  Christmas!" 

Then  he  recollected  some  sort  of  manners,  and  turned 
to  Mrs.  Owen. 

"I  am  quite  sure  that  you  meant  most  kindly,"  he 
said,  sacrificing  all  vestige  of  truth — "but,"  and  he  had 
to  stop  in  order  to  control  his  voice,  "but  don't  you 


396  SHEAVES 

think  it  was  rather  a  hasty  conclusion  ?  Thanks  awfully, 
all  the  same.  Thanks." 

And  then  he  could  no  longer  check  himself.  There 
came  a  breaking  point.  He  turned  his  face  to  the  wall 
and  tried  to  bury  it  in  his  hands.  But  shrieks  of  laugh- 
ter burst  forth  through  the  chinks  in  his  fingers.  He 
was  very  sorry  about  it ;  manners  had  again  gone  to  the 
winds,  but  he  was  perfectly  powerless.  If  people  made 
such  wonderful  jokes  what  were  you  to  do? 

Then,  after  a  moment,  he  controlled  himself,  and 
turned  to  the  room  again.  But  it  was  empty.  So  he 
sat  down  and  laughed  properly.  The  window  was  wide 
open,  and  as  the  steps  of  his  visitors  crunched  over  the 
gravel  maniac  yells  and  cries  besieged  their  ears. 

They  were  both  rather  red  in  the  face,  and  they 
walked  a  little  way  without  speech.  Then  Canon  Aling- 
ton  spoke  ex  cathedrd. 

"I  am  deeply  thankful,"  he  said,  "that  we  have 
cleared  it  up";  and,  with  his  usual  tact,  spoke  at  once 
of  the  decorations  in  the  church  for  the  festival  of  Easter. 
But  still  Hugh's  laughter  came  to  them,  and  once  Mrs. 
Owen,  whose  hearing  was  remarkably  acute,  thought  she 
heard  the  shrill  falsetto  words,  "Is  she  at  Davos? 
Oh-h-h!" 

And  she  had  taken  so  much  trouble  to  get  intimate 
at  Chalkpits.  She  felt  it  was  all  thrown  away  now. 
The  conclusion  was  perfectly  just,  logical,  irrefutable, 
all  that  conclusions  ought  to  be.  She  determined  that 
they  should  be  "those  Graingers."  What  a  pity, 
though!  She  felt  sure  that  there  was  so  much  in  com- 
mon between  them  and  her.  Perhaps  it  was  prema- 
ture to  think  of  them  as  "those  Graingers"  just  yet. 
What  a  blessing,  anyhow,  that  it  had  been  Canon  Aling- 
ton  who  had  been  spokesman.  He  had  really  done  it 


SHEAVES   .  397 

very  stupidly.  Perhaps  with  care  it  might  only  result 
in  their  being  "those  Alingtons."  And  even  before 
she  had  reached  home  her  infinitesimal  mind  was  as 
busy  as  a  bee  over  infinitesimal  intrigues. 

Edith  was  under  contract  to  telegraph  to  Hugh  at 
least  once  a  day,  and  to  write  as  often  as  she  felt  inclined, 
and  for  the  next  week,  with  Peggy  and  Daisy  in  the 
house,  the  days,  lacking  the  presence  that  made  days 
perfect,  came  as  near  to  perfection  as  might  be.  Tele- 
grams came  with  more  than  daily  frequency,  and  thor- 
oughly satisfactory  contents,  and  letters  were  daily 
also;  not  long  very  often,  but  always  happy,  always 
giving  good  accounts,  and  always  bursting  with  satis- 
faction at  the  success  of  the  writer's  diplomacy  with 
regard  to  her  birthday  present  to  him. 

The  days  were  full  of  mirth  also,  for  Peggy  had  taken 
the  helpfulness  of  Mannington  in  the  humorous  spirit, 
and  bade  Hugh  look  at  postmarks,  to  make^  certain  that 
Edith  was  still  at  Davos.  She  had  insisted  also  on  the 
absurdity  of  there  being  any  breach  between  St.  Olaf's 
and  Chalkpits,  and,  with  the  sweeping  good  nature  and 
inability  to  harbour  resentment  or  malice  which  was  so 
characteristic  of  her,  had  insisted  on  Hugh's  at  once 
asking  both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Owen  and  the  vicar  and  his 
wife  to  dinner,  simultaneously,  and  she  would  hold 
herself  responsible  for  the  success  of  it. 

"You've  only  got  to  be  natural  with  people,"  she 
said,  "and  they'll  be  natural  too." 

"  Oh,  but  it's  natural  to  Mrs.  Owen  to  be  affected,  and 
to  Dick  to  be  a  prig,"  said  Hugh. 

"Oh,  no,  it  isn't.  That's  only  veneer.  We  shall 
play  Beggar-my -neighbour.  You  will  see." 

They  came,  and  Peggy  conquered.     And  Mrs.  Owen, 


398  SHEAVES 

as  she  walked  home  in  her  goloshes,  thought  that  perhaps 
it  would  be  neither  "those  Graingers"  nor  "those 
Alingtons,"  but  "those  dear  Graingers  and  Alingtons." 

Fishing  had  begun,  and  Peggy  at  once  saw  that  noth- 
ing else  mattered.  The  fact  that  it  was  dry-fly  work, 
and  she  at  present  hardly  knew  one  end  of  a  rod  from 
the  other,  did  not  interfere  at  all  with  her  determination 
to  fish,  and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  she  hooked  a  trout  (who 
must  have  been  mad)  on  the  third  day,  which  agitated 
her  so  much  that  she  fell  into  the  river,  and  had  to  g. 
home.  Hugh,  however,  went  on,  and  Daisy  stopped 
down  with  him.  Peggy  toiled  up  to  the  house,  her  wet 
skirt  clinging  to  her  with  almost  touching  fidelity,  and 
impeding  her  movements  as  only  a  wet  skirt  can.  Going 
through  the  hall,  and  dropping  showers  of  blessings  as 
she  passed,  she  saw  that  the  mid-day  post  had  just  come 
in.  There  was  a  pile  for  her,  and  nothing  for  Hugh 
except  a  telegram.  So  there  was  no  letter  from  Edith 
to  him  to-day,  unless,  indeed,  it  had  come  by  the  morn- 
ing post.  That  was  unusual,  however,  it  always  arrived 
by  this  second  delivery.  Yet  there  was  a  telegram. 

Then,  quite  suddenly  and  causelessly,  Peggy  felt 
anxious,  and  it  became  necessary  to  send  this  telegram 
down  to  him  by  the  river,  so  that  if  there  was  bad  news 
he  should  get  it  at  once.  She  felt  certain  that  it  did 
contain  bad  news,  and  longed  for  a  moment  to  open  it 
herself.  But  she  could  not  do  that,  and  so  merely 
scribbled  on  the  outside,  "Send  it  back  to  me  to  read." 
Then  she  went  upstairs  to  change. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  afterward  she  was  laughing  at 
her  fears,  for  he  had  sent  it  back,  opened,  to  be  given  to 
her,  and  it  contained  the  words  merely — 

"No  time  to  write  yesterday.  Lovely  weather,  very  busy, 
so  well." 


SHEAVES  399 

Peggy  remained  in  her  room  till  lunch-time,  answering 
her  post,  and  by  degrees  she  grew  troubled  again. 
What  was  Edith  so  busy  with?  There  was  nothing  that 
could  make  her  busy  except  her  play.  Was  Andrew 
Robb  back  again? 

Hugh,  as  often  happened  when  he  was  fishing,  did  not 
appear  at  the  luncheon  hour,  and  Peggy,  according  to 
custom,  began  alone.  Still  some  vague  misgiving 
obsessed  her;  she  had,  in  any  case,  to  laugh  at  her  fears, 
which  showed  that  her  fears,  though  she  did  not  know 
what  they  were,  were  there.  Through  the  dining-room 
window,  looking  out  on  to  the  gravel  in  front  of  the 
house,  she  saw  a  telegraph  boy  arrive  on  a  bicycle,  and 
she  felt  sure  this  was  a  second  telegram  for  Hugh,  which 
again,  for  the  sake  of  his  peace  of  mind,  she  would  have 
to  send  down  to  him  at  once.  Again  she  was  com- 
pletely wrong;  the  telegram  was  for  her,  and  was  of  no 
importance  whatever.  It  was  easier  to  laugh  at  her 
fears  after  this,  but  still  she  had  to  laugh  at  them.  If 
she  did  not,  they  reappeared. 

She  finished  lunch  alone,  but  about  now  the  sun, 
after  a  cloudy  morning,  dispersed  the  encumbrances  and 
shone  vigorously.  That  would  make  fishing  impossible 
for  the  afternoon — Hugh  would  soon  be  up  from  the 
river  with  Daisy,  ravenous  for  food. 

Then,  just  as  she  strolled  out  to  have  her  coffee  out- 
side in  the  sun,  something  further  crunched  the  gravel. 
Again  it  was  the  bicycle  of  a  telegraph-boy,  and  she 
took  the  telegram  herself  from  his  hand,  at  the  front 
door,  feeling  certain  now,  after  her  experiences  of  false 
alarm  in  the  morning,  that  it  was  for  her.  But  again 
she  was  wrong:  it  was  for  Hugh.  So  she  put  it  on  the 
hall-table  inside,  and  merely  waited  for  him  to  come  up 
from  the  river.  But  it  was  a  foreign  telegram. 


400  SHEAVES 

Peggy  sat  down  and  drank  her  coffee,  wondering  what 
had  so  upset  her.  True  she  had  fallen  into  the  river, 
and  lost  a  trout  in  consequence,  and  got  very  wet,  but 
some  sense  of  calamity  was  over  her.  Then  suddenly 
she  was  immensely  reassured,  for  the  figures  of  Hugh 
and  Daisy  appeared  coming  up  the  steep  bank  from  the 
water-meadow. 

"Oh,  mummy,  three  fish,"  shrieked  Daisy,  "and  one 
is  bigger  than  you  ever  saw.  I  did  the  landing-net." 

But  Hugh,  too,  was  grave. 

"Is  there  a  letter  from  Edith?"  he  asked. 

"No.  Another  telegram  as  just  come  for  you.  I 
didn't  send  it  down,  because  I  expected  you  to  come 
immediately." 

Hugh  paused  beside  her. 

"Three  fish,"  he  said;  "isn't  that  big  one  a  beauty? 
Peggy,  why  is  she  busy?" 

He  met  her  eyes;  he  saw  the  causeless  trouble  in  her 
face. 

"It's  on  the  hall  table,"  she  said. 

Hugh  went  inside,  leaving  the  landing-net  with  the 
three  fish  in  it  on  the  steps.  In  a  moment  he  reappeared 
again,  with  the  telegram  in  his  hand. 

"Open  it,"  he  said.     "Tell  me." 

What  was  this  wave  of  inexplicable  communication 
that  had  reached  them  both?  Whatever  it  was,  it  was 
borne  here  on  the  wings  of  love,  the  love  that  turned  to 
them.  So  there  was  nothing  to  be  frightened  at. 

She  took  it  from  him,  opened  it,  read  it.  Then  she 
leaned  a  little  forward  toward  him,  and  put  her  hand 
on  his  arm. 

"Yes,  dear,"  she  said,  "we  must  go  back  to  Davos — 
now,  I  mean.  Oh,  Hughie,  face  it.  It  is  very  bad; 
no,  not  the  worst.  But  she  is  very  ill!  " 


SHEAVES  401 

She  handed  him  the  telegram. 

"Go  and  eat  something,  Hugh,"  she  said.  "I  will 
make  all  your  arrangements.  But  shall  I  come  with 
you?  Say  what  you  think  is  best;  I  will  be  ready  as 
soon  as  you.  But  be  sensible,  dear.  Go  and  eat  while 
I  look  out  trains.  Only,  would  you  rather  I  came  with 
you  or  not? 

He  took  the  telegram,  read  it,  saw  what  it  was. 

"No,"  said  he.  "But  will  you  stop  down  here,  so 
that  you  will  be  on  the  spot  to  make  all  arrangements?" 

"Yes,  yes,''  said  she. 

"Thanks,  Peggy.  We  shall  come  back  here  as  soon 
ciS  she  can  be  moved.  We  settled  that." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

HUGH  had  taken  the  telegram  with  him,  and  on  his 
journey  he  read  it  and  re-read  it.  In  London, 
at  Victoria  station,  it  could  be  construed  one  way,  at 
'Dover  it  could  be  construed  another  way.  Waiting  at 
Laon.  the  probability  inclined  toward  the  Victoria 
interpretation,  but  with  the  wheels  going  swiftly  round 
again  he  thought  the  Dover  interpretation  might  be 
right.  But  when,  in  the  dim,  frosty  hour  before  dawn 
he  awoke,  after  a  short  sleep,  just  as  the  train  came 
into  Basle,  he  knew  that  the  two  interpretations  were 
one.  What  it  came  to  was  this — Edith  had  an  attack 
of  syncope,  failure  of  the  heart.  She  had  rallied;  as 
soon  as  she  could  be  moved  she  must  be  moved  down 
to  some  lower  and  less  stimulating  air.  This  attack 
had  taken  place  on  the  morning  she  would  have  written 
to  him.  When  she  recovered  she  sent  the  telegram 
saying  she  had  not  written  because  she  was  so  busy. 
Then  a  second  attack  had  come  on.  The  second 
telegram  was  sent  by  the  doctor. 

The  wheels  of  the  train  made  a  continuous  throbbing, 
punctuated  beat,  and  as  they  sped  on  between  the 
flower-strewn  pastures  he  was  conscious  of  little  else 
but  this  pulsation.  Just  occasionally  some  vivid  flash 
of  consciousness  came  over  him,  so  that  for  a  moment 
the  sword  of  suspense  pierced  him  or  the  hot  hand  of 
sorrow  lay  heavy  on  his  head,  or,  again,  for  a  moment 
only,  he  was  conscious  of  the  exquisite  beauty  of  the 
blossoming  spring,  but  for  the  most  part  his  mind  was 
inert  and  dull,  feeling  no  more  than  the  droning  of  the 

402 


SHEAVES  403 

wheels.  He  merely  had  to  sit  still  and  be  taken  to 
Davos.  He  would  feel  again  when  he  got  there;  just 
now  he  was  no  more  than  a  parcel.  Sometimes  for  a 
space  the  wheels  seemed  like  some  voice  he  knew — 
Peggy's,  for  instance,  saying,  in  staccato,  some  ridiculous 
sentence.  For  ten  minutes  at  a  time  she  would  say, 
' '  Tel-e-gram— on — -the — hall — table — tel-e-gram — on — 
the — hall — table."  Or  Daisy,  in  her  childish  treble 
would  repeat,  "I  —  did — the  land-ing — net — I — did 
—the — land-ing  net,"  sentences  he  had  heard  just 
before  the  reading  of  the  telegram.  Or,  again,  some- 
times, still  to  the  beat  of  the  labouring  tram,  some  very 
distant  voice  sang.  But  the  wheels  never  tuned  them- 
selves to  Edith's  voice. 

All  the  time,  too,  below  the  numbness  and  the 
apathy  there  was  something  of  the  horror  of  his  own 
smallness,  and  of  the  sense,  as  under  some  anaesthetic, 
of  infinite  distance.  All  the  kindly  and  lovely  things 
of  the  world  were  withdrawn. 

Landquart  already!  He  could  scarcely  believe  that 
he  had  been  more  than  an  hour  or  two  in  the  train  since 
Basle.  The  journey  had  not  seemed  interminably  long; 
it  had  seemed,  on  the  contrary,  incredibly  short.  He 
had  to  change  here  and  get  into  the  light  mountain  rail- 
way which  would  take  him  up,  up  home.  Where  she 
was,  was  home. 

The  languor  of  spring  hung  heavy  in  these  valleys, 
but  before  long,  as  they  mounted,  the  cooler,  more  vivid 
air  began  to  stream  down  from  the  austere  heights.  And 
then  it  was  that  the  magnet  of  home  began  to  pull,  the 
apathy  dropped  from  him,  he  felt  and  realised  on  what 
journey  he  had  come.  Patiently  and  slowly  the  train 
climbed  up  the  pass  to  Wolf-gang,  and  with  its  own 
momentum  dropped  down  into  the  valley  of  Davos. 


404  SHEAVES 

There  lay  the  lake,  still  reflecting  without  tremor  the 
pines  of  the  hillside;  there  lay  the  quiet  sunshine,  brood- 
ing serene  and  luminous,  in  this  dawn  and  youth  of  the 
year,  and  there,  above  the  vihage,  stood  the  roof  and 
wooden  walls  and  deep  balconies  of  his  home. 

It  was  but  ten  minutes'  walk  there  from  the  upper 
station,  and  he  left  his  servant  to  look  after  the  luggage 
and  walked  up  the  little  path  between  the  fields  that  he 
knew  so  well.  And  in  that  serene  peace  he  came  back 
to  himself,  even  as  his  hurrying  feet  were  taking  him 
back  to  her.  He  did  not  know  what  he  expected,  except 
that  she  was  waiting  for  him  to  come.  And  then,  while 
he  was  yet  a  couple  of  hundred  yards  from  the  house, 
he  saw  the  figure  of  a  man  coming  down  toward  him. 
In  a  moment  he  saw  it  was  the  doctor. 

"I  meant  to  meet  the  train,  my  dear  boy."  he  said, 
"but  I  couldn't  leave  her.  Yes,  she  is  better,  a  little 
better.  She  knows  you  are  coming." 

He  looked  at  Hugh  a  moment  with  quiet,  pitiful  eyes. 

"She  has  been  getting  a  little  stronger  all  day,"  he 
said,  "and  when  I  left  her  she  was  asleep.  That  is  her 
best  chance." 

Hugh  nodded,  just  to  show  he  understood. 

"She  may  live,"  said  the  doctor.  "I  mean  she  may 
get  over  this  attack.  I  think  she  will  certainly  live  till 
she  sees  you.  I  think  that  that  desire  is  stronger  than 
death.  Sometimes  it  happens  so." 

"Will — will  she  know  me?"  asked  Hugh.  "Thank 
you,  I  forgot,  for  coming  to  meet  me.  It  was  very  kind 
of  you." 

But  he  held  his  head  high.  What  wine  were  those 
words  to  him. 

"She  will  certainly  know  you,"  said  the  other.  "She 
is  quite  herself.  Come  in  quietly." 


SHEAVES  405 

They  entered  the  hushed  house  by  the  back  door,  so 
that  they  should  not  have  to  pass  by  her  room,  and 
came  on  to  the  balcony  outside  the  drawing-room. 
There  was  tea  laid  there;  two  cups,  two  plates. 

"Your  wife  ordered  it,"  said  the  doctor.  "She  said 
to  me  this  morning,  'Please  have  tea  ready  for  Hugh 
when  he  comes.'  Yes,  sit  there  quietly.  I  will  come 
back  soon." 

Hugh  had  bowed  himself  forward,  with  his  face 
buried  in  his  hands.  The  freezing  of  grief  and  anxiety, 
its  apathy  and  numbness,  passed  from  him  at  that  little 
thing,  that  tiny,  intimate  touch,  and  the  frost  of  sorrow 
was  melted.  And  as  the  tears  rained  and  the  sobs  choked 
him,  he  kissed  the  little  cakes  that  were  there.  It  was 
she — she,  who  dwelt  in  these  little  sugared  things. 

Then  that  passed  too,  and  all  the  reality  of  their  life 
together  strengthened  and  exalted  him.  Edith  had 
thought  of  this,  and  he  poured  out  tea  and  drank  it, 
and  it  was  as  if  she  sat  by  him,  as  if  this  was  one  of  those 
dear,  ordinary  days,  when  he  had  come  in  and  found  her, 
as  he  had  so  often  found  her,  waiting  to  begin.  He  had 
often  said  to  her,  "  Do  begin  tea  if  I  am  late,"  but  she  as 
often  said,  "  Oh,  I  like  my  tea  better  when  you  are  there." 
The  triviality  of  the  memory,  the  triviality  of  such 
incidents  was  brought  to  the  level  of  to-day;  he  did 
naturally  what  he  had  done  so  often.  The  little  things 
which  were  associated  with  her  lost  their  littleness. 
She,  like  a  golden  thread,  ran  through  little  and  big 
things  alike. 

Before  very  long  the  doctor  came  out  again  to  join 
him,  and  told  him  more.  For  a  week  before  this  she 
had  been  very  much  depressed,  and,  to  remedy  that, 
there  was  no  doubt  that  she  had  unduly  tired  herself, 
chiefly  with  some  writing  that  she  was  doing. 


4o6  SHEAVES 

"A  play,"  he  said;  "she  finished  it  some  four  days 
ago.  It  is  inside  in  the  drawing-room.  She  wished 
you  to  read  it. 

"The  morning  after  she  had  finished  it  she  had  a 
fainting  fit.  Not  very  serious  in  itself.  But  I  insisted 
on  her  stopping  in  bed  next  day.  That  day  she  sent 
you  a  telegram,  but  she  could  not  write.  A  few  hours 
afterward  she  had  a  worse  attack.  I  telegraphed  to 
you  then.  She  knows  that,  by  the  way.  She  knew 
you  were  coming." 

"Does  she  know  I  am  here?"  asked  Hugh. 

"  I  am  not  sure.  But  about  ten  minutes  before  I 
met  you  on  the  path,  while  I  was  still  with  her,  she  said 
suddenly,  'Oh,  he  has  come.'  And  then  she  fell  asleep." 

Hugh  turned  round  in  his  chair. 

"What  do  you  expect?"  he  said.  ''What  is  the  best 
you  expect,  and  what  is  the  worst?  I  want  to  know 
all." 

The  doctor  looked  at  him  silently  a  moment. 

"You  mean  what  would  I  wish  for  one  I  loved  in  such 
a  case,  and  what  would  I  fear?" 

"Exactly  that." 

"The  best  is  that  she  may  see  you  and  talk  to  you 
and  die.  That  is  what  both  you  and  she,  I  think, 
would  be  right  to  choose.  The  worst  is  that  she  may  get 
a  little  better,  and  drag  en,  for  weeks  perhaps,  even  go 
back  to  England.  Then  there  would  be  that  long, 
unwilling  struggle  to  cling  to  life,  a  struggle  that  is 
instinctive  only,  and  does  not  represent  the  will  or  the 
desire." 

"Then  there  is  no  hope  of  real  recovery?" 

"No." 

Hugh  got  up  from  his  chair  and  walked  across  to  the 
window.  It  was  drawing  near  to  sunset,  and  the  snow- 


SHEAVES  407 

peaks  opposite  were  already  beginning  to  flame,  while 
down  in  the  valley  below  and  all  across  to  the  heights 
opposite  lay  the  transparent  darkening  shadow  of  eve- 
ning. No  breeze  stirred,  a  windless  calm  lay  over  the 
meadows,  the  pines,  the  cloudless  sky.  Within  him,  too, 
there  was  calm:  despair,  hopelessness  might  be  in  his 
heart,  but  there  were  other  and  bigger  things — love  and 
the  imperishable  memory  of  beautiful  days. 

After  a  moment  the  doctor  rose  too. 

"I  am  going  now,"  he  said,  "but  I  shall  be  back 
later.  If  I  could  do  any  good  by  waiting,  I  would  of 
course  wait.  You  know  all  there  is  to  be  known.  If 
she  wakes  and  asks  for  you,  you  may  of  course  go  to 
her." 

"May  I  go  and  look  at  her  a  moment  as  she  sleeps?" 
asked  Hugh. 

"Yes,  but  go  very   quietly.     Take  your  shoes  off." 

Hugh  went  up  the  passage  to  where  at  the  far  end  her 
bedroom  door  stood  wide  open,  so  that  she  might  have 
all  the  air  that  could  be  got.  Yet,  though  his  heart  was 
inside  that  room,  he  paused  a  moment  at  the  door  fear- 
ing what  he  might  be  going  to  see,  dreading  to  look  on 
what  the  cruel  hand  of  suffering  and  mortal  weakness 
had  done.  But  next  moment  he  had  conquered  that, 
and  went  in,  and  his  fear  was  so  groundless  that  he  no 
longer  remembered  that  he  had  feared. 

She  lay  without  pillows,  so  that  her  head  was  level 
with  her  body,  and  her  arms  lay  outside  the  sheet.  And 
as  he  looked  at  her  face  it  seemed  to  him  for  a  moment 
that  all  her  illness,  all  she  had  gone  through  since  the 
autumn,  was  but  a  dream,  so  untroubled  was  her  sleep, 
so  calm  and  natural  her  whole  look.  She  did  not  look 
ill,  even,  and  her  mouth  smiled  a  little  with  parted  lips. 
Yet  the  nurse  was  there,  the  apparatus  of  illness  was 


408  SHEAVES 

there,  the  faint  sweet  smell  of  ether  still  hung  a  little  in 
the  room. 

Soon  he  went  back  to  the  sitting-room  at  the  far  end 
of  the  house,  where  he  had  gone  first  with  the  doctor, 
and  there  on  a  table  was  lying  the  manuscript  she  had 
finished,  which  she  wished  him  to  read.  All  evening  and 
deep  into  the  night  he  read.  It  was  all  Edith:  she 
herself,  she  shining  above  him. 

The  doctor  came,  but  went  again  immediately;  she 
was  still  sleeping,  and  soon  after  the  night  nurse  had  come 
on  duty,  Hugh  went  to  bed  himself,  for  she  still  slept. 
There  through  the  calm  starlit  hours  he  lay,  dozing  a 
little  from  time  to  time,  but  for  the  most  part  lying  with 
open  eyes,  looking  out  into  the  night,  not  restless,  but 
very  quiet.  His  room  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  house, 
and  it  did  not  seem  very  long  to  him  before  a  little  change 
came  over  the  darkness.  High  on  the  mountains  to  the 
west  came  a  little  flush  of  colour,  the  tops  grew  rosy. 
Down  here  in  the  valley  it  was  still  dark,  but  in 
the  heavens  dawn  had  come,  and  had  touched  the 
topmost  snows. 

Then,  before  his  mind  told  him  why  he  had  done  so, 
he  got  out  of  bed.  Next  moment  he  heard  a  soft  step 
outside.  A  tap  at  the  door.  He  felt  he  had  been 
waiting  for  this. 

He  was  at  the  door  in  a  moment  in  his  dressing  gown. 

"She  has  just  woke,"  said  the  nurse,  "and  she  wants 
to  see  you.  I  have  rung  up  Dr.  Harris.  He  ought  to 
come  at  once!" 

A  couple  of  candles  were  burning  on  the  table  in  her 
room,  shielded  from  the  bed.  But  dawn  was  coming 
quickly,  there  was  scarce  need  for  them. 

Her  face  was  turned  toward  the  door,  and  as  he 
entered  she  smiled  at  him.  A  little  rosy  light  was 


SHEAVES  409 

beginning  to  steal  in  through  the  uncurtained  windows, 
and  her  eyes  shone  with  it. 

"Oh,  Hughie,"  she  whispered.  "I  knew  you  had 
come.  Thank  God." 

He  knelt  down  by  the  bed,  taking  her  hand  in  his, 
kissing  it,  kissing  it.  , 

"Meine  Seele,"  he  said,  "meine  Seele!" 

"Yes,  my  darling.  Oh,  Hughie,  how  beautiful  it 
has  been.  How— — " 

Then  a  wonderful  change  began  to  come  over  her  face, 
a  dawn,  a  new  life.  He  understood. 

She  raised  herself  in  bed,  triumphant,  radiant. 

"My  soul  and  iny  heart!"  she  said  aloud,  speaking 
quickly.  "Thank  God  for  it  all.  Ah,  good-bye,  my 
Hugh.  Morning,  it  is  morning." 

Dawn  had  come.  ' 


.-,  u 


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UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


